These flowers may have flown here from abroad, disturbed by a passing Persian caravan, kicked into the wind by careless hooves that sent them whirling around the world.
“It’s been a long journey for them,” you say. “Their scent is of a time long past.”
I nod. “They’re certainly not from anywhere near here.”
I like to think they came from a distant star. Or, less poetically, from some suffering planet that ejected them in a maelstrom and discarded them into the drift-streams of space.
“You can still see the cosmic background glow they picked up along the way,” I suggest.
“But why,” you ask, “should these three stay together?”
“They must have a connection.”
Tied to one another by like-minded purpose. It’s lonely out there, after all. One needs friends, or fellow travelers.
You turn the flowers carefully in your hand.
You’re still thinking about that caravan.