Diffident Daffodils Die Dramatically During Droughts.

Dear K,

This letter shall be a fantasy. It isn't true or real, but let it exist for a moment before you wave your hands and scatter the dust.

Flowers for you my dear would be a pleasure. I would order a store out of them if I could. A whole Pullman Car of fresh-cut flowers. Enough to damn a thousand gardeners and gatherers to a life of crooked backs and stiff necks. Just to see you smile and laugh and box my shoulder. Of course I would do this in an instant.

Fields and fields of daisies, azaleas, forget-me-nots, mums, roses, black-eyed-susans, snapdragons, bluebells, thistles, dandelions, sunflowers, tiger lilies, all of them planted haphazard as if God had taken a shotgun loaded with seeds and shot the Earth, and of course, my secret is that I know your secret, so of course there would be daffodils thousands of millions of them.

A hill of daffodils, and on that hill I'd build a house of them. A flower house with flower chairs, and flower tables, and flower couches, and flower stairs, and flower cupboards, and flower stools, and a flower chimney, and a flower walls. We'd get dizzy from the scent, and our heads would swim and droop and fall asleep in the sunlight, drowsing to the thrum of bees.

My dear K, wouldn't that be awful to live in a flower house? I wouldn't do any of that, it wouldn't be right. Think of all the wasted pocket money, and trouble and time, and what if it rains or the wind blows? What if rabbits come and eat the foundations? What if all the native species are choked and die because of all these flowers I planted? Yes this is a thing I should not, and could not do.

But what a sad thought it is, if the world ended and nobody ever built a flower house?

K.

P.s.

This is what I believe you were talking about when we talked about romance. A wild fool's fever dream of promises and intents. Impractical, illogical, and unwanted. But, I think these moments are some of the minutes most worth living.

Again,
Yours,
K