White rose petals leave a trail

Behind the reaper’s carriage,

But the sun still shines.

The son brings chardonnay.

It spills over

It drips—

Sticky fingers frizz

And I sip.

I dream of the daffodils

And of the canopies

That grow through me.

The streams flow through me.

The sun remains perched.
.نحن مهمون

Vital.

The answer is now.