I suppose she isn't quite holding the flowers, but it will do.

What are they,the white roses, when they are almost nothing, only a little denser than the fog, shadow-centered petals blurring, toward the edges, into everything? This morning one broken cloud built an archipelago, fourteen gleaming islands hurrying across a blank plain of sheen: nothing, or next to nothing --pure scattering, light on light, fleeting. And now, a heap of roses beside the sea, white rugosa beside the foaming hem of shore: brave, waxen candles... And we talk as if death were a line to be crossed. Look at them, the white roses. Tell me where they end.

blessed image

i thought this would be really hard to find but it took way less than i expected