SILK SINGLE STEM FLOWERS : STEM FLOWERS

Silk Single Stem Flowers : Mix Bouquet.

Silk Single Stem Flowers


silk single stem flowers
    single stem
  • Operation handling one tree at a time (23).
  • Plant development by the production of one stem. Examples: corn (Zea mays) and American beech (Fagus grandifolia).
    flowers
  • Be in or reach an optimum stage of development; develop fully and richly
  • (of a plant) Produce flowers; bloom
  • (flower) reproductive organ of angiosperm plants especially one having showy or colorful parts
  • Induce (a plant) to produce flowers
  • (flower) bloom: produce or yield flowers; "The cherry tree bloomed"
  • (flower) a plant cultivated for its blooms or blossoms
    silk
  • Thread or fabric made from the fiber produced by the silkworm
  • A fine, strong, soft, lustrous fiber produced by silkworms in making cocoons and collected to make thread and fabric
  • (silks) the brightly colored garments of a jockey; emblematic of the stable
  • animal fibers produced by silkworms and other larvae that spin cocoons and by most spiders
  • A similar fiber spun by some other insect larvae and by most spiders
  • a fabric made from the fine threads produced by certain insect larvae
silk single stem flowers - Artificial 22"
Artificial 22" Single Stem Phalaenopsis, White
Artificial 22" Single Stem Phalaenopsis, White
This life-like artificial orchid will be the perfect complement to any decor, or an easy way to add life and color to your office. It features a single stem of white phalaenopsis blooms securely "potted" in a simple ridged glazed black pot. The overall dimensions are measured from the bottom of the pot to the tallest bloom, and from the farthest bloom to the farthest leaf tip. All measurements are approximate and will be determined by your final shaping of the item. No arranging is necessary, just minor shaping, with the way in which we pack and ship our products.

77% (10)
Blue and Buttercup
Blue and Buttercup
THE WITCH AND THE INSECT A folk tale of the Scottish Highlands tells that Donald, a fisherman, was distracted from his dinner by the sound of a soft tapping at his window. Intrigued, he lit a cruisie and investigated the noise. A white moth fluttered against the glass, powdering it with dusty scales from its wings, so he opened the casement, and it flew into the room. It hovered briefly over the flame of the cruisie, scorched itself, and fell to the floor, whereupon it transformed into a beautiful woman, who pleaded to become his wife. Forsaking all memory of his former love, he did so, promising never to light the cruisie again, for fear that it would burn her to cinders. But his jilted lover heard his vow, and crept one night into his cottage, lighting the cruisie whilst the room was empty. When Donald’s wife came into the room, her eyes bubbled into a thousand little lenses, her cloak transformed into four white wings, her tongue coiled like a watch-spring, and she fluttered into the flame. She lay seared and writhing on the floor, until Donald came into the room, and the draught from the door whisked the white moth out of the window and into the night. Donald followed after her, and was never seen again, but the white moth was found dead on the roots of a briar. Stories of women who transform into insects are of ancient lineage. The hero of Apuleius’ The Golden Ass, written in the second century C.E., heard the story of Cupid and Psyche, an allegory on the relationship between eros and agape. The Greek word psyche means both soul and butterfly, an association fostered not only by the fact that butterflies can take flight, but also by their metamorphosis from larva into imago. A similar etymological link existed in the old Lancastrian dialect, in which the word for ‘soul’ also meant ‘moth’, and it is no coincidence that one of the iconographic traditions involving transvection of witches to the sabbat depicts the soul leaving the mouth of the sleeping or inebriated witch in the form of a moth. In ancient Mexico, the god Quetzalcoatl was believed to have first entered the world in the form of a chrysalis, his emergence as a butterfly symbolising his attainment of perfection. Occasionally, the equation of Lepidoptera with the freedom of the soul is given a negative slant; thus in Westphalia, where butterflies are thought to be witches, children go out with hammers on St. Peter’s Day, bent on the insects’ destruction. Mercifully, the beauty of butterflies has arrested the spread of such cultural thuggery, and the positive image of the butterfly as a vehicle of the soul is perpetuated to this day, finding cinematic expression in the ending of Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride. At the end of his chapter on ‘A Fairy Fauna’ in his book on the South Downs, the naturalist W.H. Hudson asked himself which insect he would most like to become for a single day. Hudson considered them all: “the fantastic fly, a miracle of inconsequence”; the wasp, “that very fine insect gentleman in his mood of devilish cheerfulness”; “the grasshopper, with his small stringed instrument and long grave countenance; the dragon-fly, with those two great, gem-like orbs that reflect a nature of an unimaginable aspect.” At last, he chose the common blue butterfly, because “the hue of the sky and atmosphere on this insect’s wings appears to have ‘entered his soul’”. So far, so anthropomorphic. But then, there comes a recognition which is similar to that of a shaman or a witch: “The knowledge of that strange fairy world it inhabits would be incommunicable, like a vision vouchsafed to some religionist of which he has been forbidden to speak…” Let us explore a few of these imaginative transformations. * You look like a miniscule louse, climbing from an earthen hole. You ascend the swaying stems of flowers towards the sun, and stop at the stamened summit, surveying ground and grass from this wind-bent zenith. The flower shakes at the landing of an intruder, a solitary bee, and you cast off, clinging to its hairs. It takes flight, as you will never do, soaring over the heath, visiting other flowers: louseworts, bells of heather. You hold fast through all. At last, the bee comes home, to a burrow in a bank, and you are descending lower, descending only into dark. Only then do you let go, and there, in the void, with a bee’s egg for a raft on a sea of honey, you work destruction to ensure your survival. The egg is ripped asunder, the ocean of honey devoured. You have become a grub that is all bowel and hunger. You winter underground, bulging against the walls of the burrow, and in spring, you emerge in another guise: an articulated dream, the colour of no metal ever made, all blackness, bleared with violet oil. You devour only grass. Your head is ant-like, your antennae kinked and vibrant. You mate, and strain thousands of eggs out of the vast fecundity of your abdomen, into earthen holes beneath the swaying stems of flow
The Witch and the Insect
The Witch and the Insect
CHAPTER 2 THE WITCH AND THE INSECT A folk tale of the Scottish Highlands tells that Donald, a fisherman, was distracted from his dinner by the sound of a soft tapping at his window. Intrigued, he lit a cruisie and investigated the noise. A white moth fluttered against the glass, powdering it with dusty scales from its wings, so he opened the casement, and it flew into the room. It hovered briefly over the flame of the cruisie, scorched itself, and fell to the floor, whereupon it transformed into a beautiful woman, who pleaded to become his wife. Forsaking all memory of his former love, he did so, promising never to light the cruisie again, for fear that it would burn her to cinders. But his jilted lover heard his vow, and crept one night into his cottage, lighting the cruisie whilst the room was empty. When Donald’s wife came into the room, her eyes bubbled into a thousand little lenses, her cloak transformed into four white wings, her tongue coiled like a watch-spring, and she fluttered into the flame. She lay seared and writhing on the floor, until Donald came into the room, and the draught from the door whisked the white moth out of the window and into the night. Donald followed after her, and was never seen again, but the white moth was found dead on the roots of a briar. Stories of women who transform into insects are of ancient lineage. The hero of Apuleius’ The Golden Ass, written in the second century C.E., heard the story of Cupid and Psyche, an allegory on the relationship between eros and agape. The Greek word psyche means both soul and butterfly, an association fostered not only by the fact that butterflies can take flight, but also by their metamorphosis from larva into imago. A similar etymological link existed in the old Lancastrian dialect, in which the word for ‘soul’ also meant ‘moth’, and it is no coincidence that one of the iconographic traditions involving transvection of witches to the sabbat depicts the soul leaving the mouth of the sleeping or inebriated witch in the form of a moth. In ancient Mexico, the god Quetzalcoatl was believed to have first entered the world in the form of a chrysalis, his emergence as a butterfly symbolising his attainment of perfection. Occasionally, the equation of Lepidoptera with the freedom of the soul is given a negative slant; thus in Westphalia, where butterflies are thought to be witches, children go out with hammers on St. Peter’s Day, bent on the insects’ destruction. Mercifully, the beauty of butterflies has arrested the spread of such cultural thuggery, and the positive image of the butterfly as a vehicle of the soul is perpetuated to this day, finding cinematic expression in the ending of Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride. At the end of his chapter on ‘A Fairy Fauna’ in his book on the South Downs, the naturalist W.H. Hudson asked himself which insect he would most like to become for a single day. Hudson considered them all: “the fantastic fly, a miracle of inconsequence”; the wasp, “that very fine insect gentleman in his mood of devilish cheerfulness”; “the grasshopper, with his small stringed instrument and long grave countenance; the dragon-fly, with those two great, gem-like orbs that reflect a nature of an unimaginable aspect.” At last, he chose the common blue butterfly, because “the hue of the sky and atmosphere on this insect’s wings appears to have ‘entered his soul’”. So far, so anthropomorphic. But then, there comes a recognition which is similar to that of a shaman or a witch: “The knowledge of that strange fairy world it inhabits would be incommunicable, like a vision vouchsafed to some religionist of which he has been forbidden to speak…” Let us explore a few of these imaginative transformations. * You look like a miniscule louse, climbing from an earthen hole. You ascend the swaying stems of flowers towards the sun, and stop at the stamened summit, surveying ground and grass from this wind-bent zenith. The flower shakes at the landing of an intruder, a solitary bee, and you cast off, clinging to its hairs. It takes flight, as you will never do, soaring over the heath, visiting other flowers: louseworts, bells of heather. You hold fast through all. At last, the bee comes home, to a burrow in a bank, and you are descending lower, descending only into dark. Only then do you let go, and there, in the void, with a bee’s egg for a raft on a sea of honey, you work destruction to ensure your survival. The egg is ripped asunder, the ocean of honey devoured. You have become a grub that is all bowel and hunger. You winter underground, bulging against the walls of the burrow, and in spring, you emerge in another guise: an articulated dream, the colour of no metal ever made, all blackness, bleared with violet oil. You devour only grass. Your head is ant-like, your antennae kinked and vibrant. You mate, and strain thousands of eggs out of the vast fecundity of your abdomen, into earthen holes beneath the swaying ste

silk single stem flowers
Comments