The old chandelier sways ever so gently in the spring breeze and the wild air plant just beneath it spreads out spidery arms across its wire brass bowl home.

The wild haired redhead behind the counter holds a sharp swiss army knife in her right hand, it’s blade merely an extension of herself.  Her eyes never ceased moving, shifting and drifting their way across the sea of flowers all around her as she cuts each bloom.

She calls it organized chaos but I think it’s just chaos. It will become organized later. When the weddings and funerals eventually take shape.

And oh the profusion of glory all around.  The peonies of a pink that defies naming, the ranunculous that was supposed to arrive in all pink-tinged white but instead came in an array of oranges, pinks and yellows.  The poppy pods in all their bulbous silver green beauty.

I sit in the old rounded yellow armchairs in front of the faux fireplace that serves mostly as a mantle to house a massing of brass ware of all kinds.

The wide-open garage door allows sun to fill the space from cement floors to high ceilings.  It lets in an abundance  of visitors, coming and going in an endless stream of companionship.  To each one she shows off her bursting walk in refrigerator filled with blooms.  Each murmurs with appreciation and leans in to breath deep.

I breath deep here too.

This is Floranthropist Market.


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