There is beauty in impermanence, imperfection.
If you were to sit in my dining room, you might think it strange that I have a dead plant.
But I think it is beautiful.
I haven’t been able to part with these dried roses. They do not mean death to me. Their papery petals and brittle leaves that crumble if touched are a symbol of fragility; their aged and faded flowers a reminder of the movement of time.
There will come a day when I will replace this plant that did not survive with a fresh and green and thriving one. But for now, I enjoy its loveliness just the way it is.