My Descriptive writing pieces

Flowers

Jazz held the flower in her fingertips so that it did not touch her scuffed palms. How was it that in all this chaos this delicate bloom should survive? Its stem was the hue of spring grass and it's brilliant purple petals so thin that even the air, made dim by the plumes of debris and smoke, could shine through them; bestowing an unearthly glow. The smile that had played at the corners of her cracked lips faded. This flower, while reaching for the sun was a living corpse, it was alive and dead. Without its roots it's vibrancy would fade sooner than the daylight. It had been three days since she's seen another person she recognized, she was rootless, like the bloom, cut off from support and supplies. She had to act now, make the right decisions or risk perishing before the moon had time to wax and wane just one more cycle. Her first trip would be to the supermarket for water or food. She had no money but somehow she didn't think that would matter.