I have a dreadful urge today to pick a flower. Not a flower out of a garden, or out of a stand or cooler, but one of those lovely innocent flowers that grow alongside the road and in fields and woods. The flowers to which no one knows the name; the ones that are just "those little blue flowers", or "the white ones that kind of look like daisies".
I want to pick a flower and twirl it between my fingers, marvel at the detail of it's petals, and give it a throne in my hair. And later tonight it would come down and find it's final resting place in the pages of an old book of poetry, where I would find it some dark day and it would make me smile.
I want to pick a flower.