He fell into a trance as she worked with the tulips, watching her hands as if he was hypnotized. She talked to him quietly, telling him the names of the greenery she was adding- evergreen viburnum for the primary foliage at the bottom, eucalyptus to fill out the gaps in the middle, tall bells of Ireland to add texture at the top.

Spring was coming. Lara could feel it hovering at the edges of the frigid air. The world was holding its breath. She loved to think of the smallest flowers making their way up through the frozen earth. Pale yellow celandines, pink-tipped daisies, the little white stars of the chamomile, the bright yellow faces of the dandelions.

Then she got into her van again and headed on to Foster Avenue, taking the long way along the Goatstown Road so she could see her favorite tree, a rare magnolia Genie that had taken over the entire garden of a suburban house. The tree was ugly in winter, a tangle of twisting branches like scrawny limbs, but in March it was covered in heart-stoppingly lovely pink and cream flowers the size of teacups.

Spring blooms had been coming in from Holland since December, but now flowers from Irish growers were arriving. Daffodils with their frilled trumpets and tissue-paper-delicate anemones and the first tulips with sturdy stems and glossy, tightly packed petals.

It would be heaven to spend your days working in a place that smelled of roses and trees and damp clay, like a garden after the rain.

He hopes the plant doesn't freeze to death before he can give it to her.He pictures her face when she opens the bag and sees it. A whole load of dark purple flowers stuck onto a tiny bendy stem like a bunch of butterflies about to fly off. Exposed roots like knobbly toes climbing over the rim of the plastic pot as if the whole thing is planning to get out and do a runner first chance it gets. It's a moth orchid.

He hopes the plants doesn't freeze to death before he can give it to her.He pictures her face when she opens the bag and sees it. A whole load of dark purple flowers stuck onto a tiny bendy stem like a bunch of butterflies about to fly off. Exposed roots like knobbly toes climbing over the rim of the plastic pot as if the whole thing is planning to get out and do a runner first chance it gets. It's a moth orchid.

Ordering online was all about ticking boxes. Species. Color. Size. Number. Grade of quality. Degree of openness. But there was something miraculous about seeing the flowers she'd imagined brought to life. Roses from Columbia. Chrysanthemums from Ecuador. Orchids from Thailand. Anemones and agapanthus from Spain. Stargazers and parrot tulips from the vast Dutch flower fields.

She began to scroll through her Pinterest board. Flowers blossomed on the screen. The golds and ochres first. Golden peonies, apricot honeysuckle, saffron, poppies the color of amber.

I am the lover's gift; I am the wedding wreath;I am the memory of a moment of happiness;I am the last gift of the living to the dead;I am a part of joy and a part of sorrow.-Kahlil Gibran"Song of the Flower XXIII