Fresh flowers are beautiful, without question.
There is a certain allure that comes with age as well. Forgotten flowers, with their papery petals and crinkled edges, are no less beautiful. Faded hues turn sepia and thin veins become more evident. Their layers are compressed, holding on to the last drops of moisture, the last moments of life.
Time is a fragile beauty.
I did not have time for this.
I sat in the car, cursing the frost on the window. The scraper was nowhere to be found, so I had to rely on the defroster. Which, unfortunately, is incredibly slow on a below-zero morning.
So I waited.
Then I happened to glance at the window. And noticed the way the light was seeping through the iced windshield. And noticed the way the trees, below the line of frost, were golden.
So I stopped fuming. And I took a picture.