I own beautiful vases,
but my go-to container for flowers is pitchers.
I gathered an armload of late-summer flowers and spread them thoughout the house.
The kitchen table.
Kitchen window sill over the sink.
(Vases are nice too. My father gave me this one.)
A bit of hydrangea in the powder room.
I found a battered old copy of Les Miserables at the recycling center and decided to recycle it, which felt kind of sacrilegious, but it's unlikely someone would read it in the state it was in.
The whole of the day seemed to be composed of dawn: all nature seemed to be having a holiday, and laughing. The pastures of St. Cloud exhaled perfume; the breeze from the Seine vaguely stirred the leaves; the branches gesticulated in the wind; the bees were plundering the jessamine; a madcap swarm of butterflies settled down on the ragwort, the clover, and the wild oats; there was in the august park of the King of France a pack of vagabonds, the birds.
I read that and wonder how I ever thought I could write about nature. And then I read it again. Plus he's a master of punctuation.
It's that Monday we all look forward to--Jane's Flowers in the House.
My kitten is more low-maintenance than hers.
But hers are so clever she's got them writing her blog posts when she's busy!