As I approach 50, my daily strolls are full of a sudden fascination with flowers. What does it mean to drop your petals, release your children, and become something entirely new but old?! I admire the steadfast strategy of bulbs, springing up in yellow, purple, pink and red to seduce a kiss of seed and pollen, while also holding a dual reserve deep underground in quiet retreat. What does it mean when a plant falls into gravity, its energy drawn down into the dark tunnels of roots? Surely, there is strength in the gathering of sugars, made with leaf in partnership with the sun, to weather the winter? In the spring of old age, I find comfort in whole fields of flowers, propped up by each other, moving from earth to sun to earth all together.