Despite this fact, there is indeed an intrigue and appreciation of bring fresh flowers home. We might no longer engage in the exchange of Tussie-Mussies, small bouquets ordered around the meaning of particular flowers and herbs then gifted with intention. But, I think we are still eager to absorb the underlying messages, to be amidst such beauty even if it is a forgotten language. It amazes me the voice each flower has, the feelings they conjure both in their fresh from the earth vibrance and as they decay. I am smitten with the plucking, gathering, arranging, selling and decaying of flowers. There is a symphony out their asking to be ordered, asking to be celebrated, asking to be held. And once we have done so, inhaled deeply the fresh perfume, there is a certain scent of flowers decaying on the kitchen table, a pungence plunging toward putrid that tickles the nostrils and urges us to move our blooms into the compost pile. But of late I have wanted to let them linger, see in their loss of life what shape they might take, how their leaves might furl, blooms might brown and stems may crumble. I hope to move ever closer toward an understanding of this language, to plunge my hands into the earth, to coax and nurture blooms into being. Floriography, you intrigue me.