It’s nature’s paradox,
fragile and bold,
fleeting and timeless.

Flowers, in their inherent sensuality, speak to our secret desire, that even we ourselves don't know about. They are our conduits to the simplest of pleasures and metaphors for the most complex of feelings.

What have we placed inside these small, silent things that dies as soon as it’s touched?

They do not speak,
yet we hear them.
They do not move,
yet they reach us.

Season to season, they wax and wane, and it's always with fresh eyes we see them as they come around again.

Do they know they’re seen?
Do they care?

A flower may not answer our questions.
But it offers a stillness, in which it changes the room.
It changes us.

What does it mean to keep a flower?

Pressed between pages.
Photographed. Named. Preserved.

But preserved from what?

Is archiving a way to honor the fleeting,
or a refusal to let it pass?

The life of a bloom is not in the holding,
but in the moment it disappears.
And yet, we save it.
We try.

We document its form,
categorize its color,
store its image, its shadow, its trace,
assign meaning,
this one is love — this one, sorrow,
as if knowledge could replace presence.

A glimpse of beauty we long to hold.

In the end, a flower asks nothing.
It just is.
And maybe that’s the answer
we’re never ready for.