bloom

flowers are one of the few things that are allowed to be completely themselves without explanation. they don't justify the color or the shape or the timing. they just arrive, do what they do, and leave. i spent a week paying close attention to that.

tulips

they were laid flat, hundreds of them, a whole carpet of red. i didn't plant them. they were just there when i arrived, more of them than i knew what to do with. red doesn't ask permission to be noticed. it just is.

ranunculus

it was bigger than i expected. much bigger. there's something specific about standing next to a single enormous flower — the scale shifts and suddenly you're the small thing in the frame. i stayed close anyway. it felt right to be near it.

freesia

they grew up around me in every direction until the light was mostly yellow. i didn't know yellow could feel like shelter until i was standing underneath it. i didn't want to move for a long time.

peonies

they pressed in from every side, soft and insistent. to be completely surrounded by something that soft is its own kind of held. i didn't expect to feel held. but there it is.

anemones

i turned around and they were everywhere, wall to wall, deep violet with near-black centers. some things you just stand in front of. you don't explain it. you just face it.

iris

the irises made room on either side. after a week of being surrounded, enclosed, overwhelmed — space. just enough of it. they didn't crowd in. they stood back and let me breathe. i think they knew i needed it.

six flowers. one week. i came out of it understanding something about color that i can't quite say in words yet.