Such simple chemistry unlocks a bulb's code – water, light earth, air – so you can hold its flower; like this wood anemone cupped in my hand, for you to see. What makes the heart more than a living pump, this animated lump of vein and blood? What kind of occult key can bare its bud to occupy a season of its own as if it had been dormant, not a stone? A constant love like these winter anemones.