`Pitching forward into a December snowdrift, I cursed my luck at being born Canadian. Why live in this Godforsaken country, frozen half the year and poached the rest, sunburned or frost-bitten, with the only solace a quiet corner and a fine book to peruse. Such were my thoughts when a copy of Portraits of Flowers came my way -- a work which engages the reader at once with its lively and articulate realization of a Canadian spring and summer's bounty.'