Flower

But, the flower, did not fold itself, did not wither, while everything was cold, cold thorns, and cold grass, it was a shadow, it was not, to fall or become dust..

She was walking in the footsteps of the sun, rising if it rose and setting if it set, comforting the clouds, spinning among the clouds, dancing like a fragile soul, on a fragile path, it was soft thorns, it was not a flame of light, it was not as delicate as a window overlooking a still sea..

She was satisfied by the fluff of the sun on the curtains, plucking a freshly surviving soul, and wrapping it around her, soft thorns, never hurting.