I gave my love flowers for Valentine’s day.
Well, sort of.
I planted her a garden outside our bedroom window. It’s not much to look at now. In fact, the soil conditioner smells a bit like dung.
All you can see now is the tiny purple flowers of the Lobelia and the craggy stalk of the rose bush.
But there are also a dozen gladiola bulbs 4 inches beneath the soil.
And the lobelia will fill out to be a violet blanket.
And the rose bush (named “Lasting Peace” on the metal tag attached to it) will produce orange-red buds that “open to reveal ever-changing hues of amber and copper.”
Chocolates are a moment of oral bliss. Cut flowers are a glimpse of beauty before they begin their slow wilt of death. Nice momentary experiences, but they hardly demonstrate the depth of the love I feel.
Only a living garden could show my feelings.
Planted flowers represent growth, cycles, and natural miracles. And *that* is exactly the gift I wanted to give my love.