forever spring

Thirteen years ago, my son went walking in the fields surrounding our farmhouse to collect wildflowers. He was nine-years old, with a love for the land and all that grew untamed. It was nearly Mother’s Day and together with his dad he made a wooden press to preserve each gathered flower.

To this day, the petals lie in layers against artist’s paper, wafer thin and achingly delicate. And when the straggling remains of winter taunt me, I carefully open the press as though unlatching the gate on a secret garden, where it remains forever spring.

bliss

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photos by: bliss {in images}

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