I bought buttercups today.
I was just walking by, saw - and that's it, it was impossible to stop. There are such in pots, bright yellow, dense, smug. Spring in its purest form.
I was actually on business. But the buttercups won.
At home, I put them on the windowsill, went away, looked. Very good. Such a simple way to make the space alive is to just put flowers and not complicate it.
I always have a lot of things at home: dogs, birds, an aquarium, some kind of constant background chaos of normal life. But the flowers in the flowerpot on the windowsill are a separate story. They don't demand anything from you. They just stand and bloom. Silently. No complaints.
I love buttercups precisely because they don't try to be roses. They are what they are - round, bright, a little old-fashioned. There is something very honest about them.
Spring is felt spicy this year. Maybe because the winter was hard. Maybe just age - you start to notice the change of seasons differently, more attentively. You see the first greens and think: well, it worked again.
Buttercups on the windowsill are a small "here, it worked again". Nothing global. Just flowers, just spring, just fine.