You never took the time to look beneath the dirt: the darkness where my roots entwine, disorganized like Pollock’s paint. You climbed the mountain which you love so well, beneath the rising rocks I thrive. My colors in the sun a hint, glinting light on waning mist: a rainbow after rain. You could have sat with me amidst this meadow full of blooms, but bliss—like breezes shift swiftly past, brushing lightly on your brow. Down you ran but first, admiration cast its spell, you took a trimming of my flowers. Now my fleeting beauty fades, and sits atop a table, arranged: a gift to your sweetheart.