Sous Les Fleurs

Do you remember her? That dream of spring—light, romantic, and fleeting.

A gentle breeze, laced with the scent of cherry blossoms, February’s spring glows only in the mind, shining ever brighter against the cold, desolate winds.

An Ema Savahl bustier, adorned with delicate ceramic flowers, blooms for the spring still in its infancy; two or three pink blossoms drift into the fluid grace of a Jill Stuart dress, flowing like the Arno through a city bathed in splendor.

Winter’s twilight meets the first breath of spring—on that afternoon, still caught between warmth and chill, I remember, faintly—this was where the dream began.