In the spring she drops the seeds, he covers them. He digs up the weeds. She cuts the flowers. She takes the blooms and puts them in every room. They soar red from the tables, sprout yellow from the shelves, hang purple from the ceiling, blue from the edges of lampshades. Clusters of flowers sit in tiny pots on every windowsill, in open cupboards, behind the sink. He stands beside her as she tosses all the wilted leaves into a rusty bucket. This house is heaven's door, the air gathering the bashful smells of blossoms, roots, cut stems, wet dirt, new and rotting leaves.


~ Jack Ridl, from Broken Symmetry