If I were a smallish pixie, I’d wear you as a hat.

days of rain
and days of sun—
we must have both

Blushing pinks–
the exact colors of a dress I wore more than 30 years ago.
Now faded and forgotten, like youthful beauty.

I remember reading that she hated hydrangeas.
Someone gave her a handful of purple blooms and she
threw them down on the stage because of her deep aversion.
Regardless of money or fame, I would never trade places
with a person who could hate hydrangeas.

The rain falls with pounding determination.
Relentless in its pressuring tempo,
it persists for days—
bringing thick, foggy mornings that make
the yellow irises stand out like lanterns in the mist.

The afternoon sun fell on the flowers,
casting a warm, golden, luminous embrace.
I envied them so.

All those cold, grey months you slept so soundly in the frigid
silence of snow. I saw you in my day dreams and you are even
more stunning than I remembered.

You were so sweet and lovely, laying gently within the grass.
I noticed your brilliant color right before the dog ate you.