I think I could really take to the Way of Flowers, though I don’t know what it involves. I like looking at wild flowers. I like cutting them. I like arranging them naturally, organically, letting them hang every which way or certain ways, as if no hand had touched them or, if at all, only gently so.
The whole thing–from eyes to hands, wordlessly throughout–appeals to my aesthetic sensibility, affording me the chance to look, look for, and then look at. So rarely would I look for or at otherwise, preferring instead to think. But when a wild flower, seemingly alive, reveals sweet transience, ah well then am I truly happy.
Before the window, in the evening light: hanging vines, cut, twisting, leaning, torquing, a yellow flower already having fallen off: how beautiful is our dinner now.