I have a sort of running joke with a friend about "nice." The word sounds almost like an indictment. Nice is caught in the compromise of itself: polite and mildly pleasing. Not exciting, nor confronting. Not spectacular. No feeling of soaring or deep soul satisfaction ever really came from Nice.
My photo today is, I think, Nice. Flower pictures for the most part usually are. Yet I persist in taking them, for they are most often the buttery salty smooth mashed potatoes of photography. Nothing wrong with it. Comfort food.