Death is an open wound—
but one where wildflowers bloom.
Friendship wills its memories—
our summer’s laughter on the breeze.
And our footfalls falling—
upon the earth.
Faint echoes fading—
of our mirth?
No, there are wildflowers in her hair—
and they’re pretty and so lovely.
Yes, there’s beauty everywhere—
she walked and where she bloomed.