come and collect

words.

picked.

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picked.

a poem about happiness

Dandelions wonder who will pick their head.

Yellow is not a happy color for those who mourn the dead.

Instead we turn to each other to ask to kiss our cheek.

Because our mother does not know the love we wish her to speak.

So we bundle up our sorrow and bless our little hearts.

How do we conjure happiness when we don’t know where to start?