there was once a girl
who stuffed her pockets
with dandelions and daffodils
every time I walked by
on Sunday mornings

some days she sings to the birds
like a modern-day Snow White
in her pastel dresses
and knee-high sucks
and I'd stop and listen to the chirping of the birds
seemingly singing back to her

but one day in April
on another Sunday morning
she wasn't there
picking her wildflowers
or singing to bluebirds

it was just an empty patch of grass
surrounded by nothing
but blue skies
and the occasional butterfly

but on one morning
in late May
on the empty patch of grass
was a stack of wildflowers—
dandelions and daffodils