I must have flowers, always, and always. ― Claude Monet
Mostly I steal flowers from myself. Sometimes I find them on the ground, sometimes I can't help but take a twig or two home with me. The flower police may be coming soon, but I am powerless to stop myself. Not really. It's quite willful. I love and adore them beyond all reason, from common weed to rarest cultivar.
Why does it matter? I don't suppose it does, not to anyone but me. Joy, I think, has as secret a heart as sorrow.