Picking Flowers That Eventually Die

Her hands are lifted high
Clapping in the breeze:

One, Two, Three
They fall like frozen tears
Three, Two, One
They die, disconnected.
The sun dances ‘round
– They melt; they wither –
White blankets on the ground –
They stream; they cover. 
Wedged between each page
Of fear and hope,
Planted deep in memory,
they grow.