In my small palms are hibiscus
Pink and green like me
The sap between my fingers is viscous
And I play with it in glee
The sun warms my legs so affably
And I run my fingers through the grass
I run in the meadows happily
Picking crocus fragile like glass
It was years of this
The hues and colours of time
A memory of verdure bliss
So lost yet always sublime