The Florist

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By Joelle Milman

The girl arose each morning to the tune of sunshine through her windowpanes and the redolence of Mr. Marcy’s garden. One day, the lavender bush was so potent that she spent her day floating on a cloud of purple dust.

She stopped at the market for three begonias and one chrysanthemum. The florist weaved six daisies through her hair. When she left, headed toward the library, he whispered these lines from Whittier:

If thou of fortune be bereft, 
and in thy store there be but left
two loaves, sell one, and with the
dole, buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.

 

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