There might be a flower growing and you won’t have to pluck it. Just look and remember the clichés about velvet and fragility, about blood and ink, youth and time? Can a simple flower hold all these ideas?
Think a moment, how would you feel if you were that flower, looking out into the mirror of the world, and saw your human self as you are right now, reading, aging, complicating your life, rattling off your reasons for this and that, hating or admiring yourself, begrudging?
We’ve given so many clichés to flowers. Can they give us back ourselves in return?
