Maybe she waits for the bloom to pass
Giving away to the rust of the autumn
The world sometimes seems too happy for her
She longs for some smaller doses of sparkle
Or... she couldn't strike friendships with ease
It might seem she shies from peer contact
The rickety bridge down the road
Could be called her best friend in the summer
The touch of a cattail might seem the preferred
Or, maybe the sweet promise of thunder
The night brings with it sweet oblivion
And in sleep, from her hand, crimson flowers
