| Cowslip Mornings They were beautiful, yellow flowers. There couldn't have been more perfect flowers. My shoes sunk into the wet swamp as I picked handfuls. Carried them, gently to not hurrying their wilting in my fists all the way to school. I was the only one who gave flowers this nice to Sister Gertrude. She smiled, gave me a happy hug, and put them in a jar. Water in the jar up to their first leaves. Sister Gertrude is gone now I am a grandma and long ago moved away from that swamp where bad smelling yellow weed-flowers grow, that leave your hands slimy and holding that awful smell for hours. |
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| Published in Banks of the Little Miami Volume 5 http:4dw.net/milford63/PatLarsonVol5.html |