Rootless and arranged in their Harrods vase, sat blooms a week or more aged. Long parched, their petals cried onto the floral carpet as if they thought themselves autumn’s last leaves. Their sweet aroma was long extinguished and all they gave was a stagnant whiff.
There were flowers in a vase upon the wooden table. James wondered if it had grown there, for it was the many hues of rich wood, comforting to the eye as nature is. From the top there were so many daffodils, fresh from the garden, the rolling incline that had become so rich with their golden heads, dancing as Phoenix-flames to warm the season.
The vase has the curves of a river sculpted rock, one made by the patience of water, that with no concept of time. The blooms within give that same feeling, of petals shaped and coloured as they co-evolved with other life, each with their own story of how they came to be a part of our creator's world; a journey of flowing moments to be a gift in our present.
The vase is beautiful in it's simplicity, just as a canvas is simply there to hold the art so lovingly applied, it allows the flowers to take centre stage. They are so bold in the room, and all the more wonderful for it. So many vibrant hues dance in a breeze that saunters in through open doors and windows, together a festival for eyes who care to see.
The flowers upon the table are fresh, some open and others in bud. I love to watch how the sunlight brings a brightness to each petal it touches and a shine upon the foliage of deepest green. They are a delicate shade of pink, yet the kind of colour that feels confident, proud to bring a radiance to the room. Upon nearing them they give a gentle aroma, one that brings summer to my imagination. Soon, though I am seeing these flowers in a vase, I conjure the meadows of mountains and valleys. It's funny how that happens, the smallest taste of nature and the mind calls for more.
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