People ask me why I like flowers. I have no green thumbs or girly girl genes.
I do not cut them up and bury them in a vase my flowers have roots and shrieks and bad weather days
It reminds me that even delicate things can stand in a storm and stay intact
Soft heart petals are yielding and as everlasting as a gobstopper
A whole life is written on its face, unapologetic, drinking up the juice from the wringer cycles of life
Tiny bone fractures suture and grow stronger with each new knock
Someone once said that a flower knows it’s beautiful because you are looking at it. It does not ask why you are looking
The beauty of death is not the death of beauty