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