Roses Are Red. Violets Are Blue.

Roses are red

Violets are blue
Tilting your head
The stalk stands askew
As the petals spread
Lovely is your hue
A lonesome night, I lay in bed
On my side, there's you

My father's family name meaning "wisteria" and my Japanese name "cherry blossoms," I quite naturally feel very tender towards flowers (notice my half-stealing the first passage of a work by Dickens here?). I lived in a house where mom always displayed all sorts of seasonal flowers, arranged decadently or simply, in a vase or a pot. Her garden is constantly in colors, altering its diversity as the seasons change, which is surprisingly often, might I add. I am quite utterly amazed at the earth for its versatility, really. I can't help but wonder if it's mom that pulls it off the way it's done. Is she truly skilled with the art of gardening and really knows what she is doing, or does it just happen that way? Growing up, I took the little luxury of living among flowers for granted, and now expect it.

I am the type of a person that "buys" flowers. Quite frequently, too. But nothing beats "receiving" them. I like it as much as receiving a hand-written letter or a card. I don't understand it when my gal pals say -and quite a few of them have told me this too - that they don't have an appreciation when a man shows up at her door with a bouquet: a notion that I cannot conceive of for the life of me.

There are three kinds of gifts that can not, CANNOT, possibly fail to make me happy. One, hand-written letters. Two, flowers. Flowers make me happy. Happy is me with flowers. Flowers and happiness. So when a gifted American Beauty blooms beside me while I lay fast asleep, I am having a good night.

Oh, another kind of gift that cannot possibly fail to make me happy... well, I will write about it some other time.

Until next time,

Sak

p.s. The rose was not a gift from a man, S. So save your inquiries.