A eulogy for ranunculus

Any florist worth her salt could talk about dying flowers for days. We all pretty much do anyways, because flowers are at their most intoxicatingly potent a day after their prime. The painterly bend, the crinkle, the fade. Flower drunk- most of us girls have been there. It's almost to the point of trite to talk about the ephemeral beauty of these things but watching a flower open, then open more, then open so wide its petals have nowhere to go but backwards is basically everything.

I've developed a habit of buying non-work flowers for my apartment. Shoved willy-nilly in an old vase, no fussing with frogs or foam or even making proper arrangements. It feels almost embarrassingly decadent, even more so because I'm such a proponent of others having flowers in their homes.  Finally practicing what I preach? For the sake of genuine floral authenticity, my dedication knows no bounds.