Wildflowers

 In the summer,

      the fields grow gold,

   with Wildflowers.

Flaxen

      like russet rays,

  of Yesterday.

I carefully pluck,

      the fragile stems,

   In great armfuls.

Take,

     them to Grandma,

   In her whitewashed hospital room,

                with it's deplorable stink.

She sniffs them,

     their gentle Perfume,

  And smiles.

She can see,

      the hozion lit with Daffodils,

  And speckled with Daisys.

She can feel,

      the summer breeze,

 Making all the Wildflowers dance.

A brief moment,

    Of Happiness.

The End

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