The ground is as alive as water. Over seasons and intent, a flower, a stalk here and there, arranged into a bouquet and ordered for Valentine’s Day. Now it’s sitting on your mantle, next to a Diptyque candle and a stack consisting of Annie Dillard and Patti Smith, all the colours darkened as if saturated by watercolour then left out to dry. The petal has been deep violet longer than it’s been bright red. You’re running out of things to say, so you just stare at the scene while it stares at you back. Just a little bit longer.