Long have I loved dead flowers. They remind me that change is beautiful even when it might not be particularly prized by its surrounds. There is a perfect moment, if you’re paying attention, when a cut flower refuses water, settles in to death. A whole new beauty blooms then, as the crepe comes on with the falling of pistils, drying of petals, fading of leaves. For time on from that there is continued change. Patient. Beautiful.

Long have I loved to cry. And to love with vulnerability and reckless, then calculated abandon. I am an emotional thing, dramatic and comedic with laughter and tears always bubbling below the surface. Passionate.

I went to see Bumblebee in the theater yesterday. There was some corny moment: “The darkest nights produce the brightest stars.” Corny, but correct.

Dead flowers are just the beginning.