The reputation of flowers, in my opinion, is deeply flawed. Think about it. Even the term, flowery, means delicate, ornate, soft. Have you looked at any flowers in their natural state lately? My roses almost killed me over the weekend. My arms were marked with punctures as though tiny pipes had blown poison darts at me from the suburban rain forest.
I got back at those roses. I cut some branches and put them in a vase on my kitchen counter. Now I can see the thorns though the clear glass and the water. Thorns as big as my thumbnails. The flowers themselves are peach or apricot colored, but redder in the bud. The shades of flesh and blood. The open blooms are chaos, the opening buds full of promise.
Remember the next time you think of flowers that in their true habitat, their natural habitat, they are fierce beings meant to ensure the future life of their species. You should still put them on your wedding tables, hold them in your hands as you walk down the aisles if you want. But make no mistake about their real selves.