demanding a blue rose of every would-be suitor, once receiving one white one which had been painted and whose petals seemed to have shrunk behind the paint

don’t get me flowers, they make me think of funerals, she used to say, preferring to give them instead

painting a room bright yellow to have an understanding of how it was to be inside a daffodil

feeding the rabbit buttercups stem first so that the flower was the last to disappear behind the incisors, little yellow secret

receiving a single rose from his best friend with a card that said only, To Beauty. oh. oh.