“Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.“
—Virginia Woolf
from her novel, “Mrs. Dalloway,” 1925

•••

Of course, she would. She could choose
what she wanted that way, the just-right

nosegays and peonies with some merry
daisies thrown in for her party. And each

time I walk into the store where I intend
to buy groceries, I am distracted—truly

tempted—by the seductive bouquets
wrapped in their alluring mylar, whispering,

“You really want to take me home,
don’t you?” And I do—I so do—though

flowers just for me, for no occasion,
seems so frivolous, so unnecessary

when all summer long hollyhocks
and roses, cosmos and daisies have

bloomed their fool heads off in my yard.
But, now September, there’s nothing

vase-worthy in the yard, so I pause—as
I envision the fictional Mrs. Dalloway

might do—amid buckets so ripe with
greenhouse specimens that they barely

resemble anything most of us could
ever grow. And that’s the point—

to scoop up such beauty just for
the sake of loveliness, bring it home

and distribute it into one or more vases
begging for floral sustenance.

For, as a friend likes to say,
Flowers are always appropriate,

which justifies my swoon as,
standing among the dazzlers,

I allow myself to be enticed,
and choose a bundle, lift it

dripping from its temporary
home to take to mine

for no good reason.
Or just because—

the best reason of all.

•••

For Connie Raub, florist and friend extraordinare