The tiny tongue in the centre gave it the shape of a bell.
And when you turned it over the outside was a deep bronze colour.

But as soon as they flowered, they fell and were scattered.

You brushed them off your frock as you talked; the horrid little things got caught in one's hair.

Why, then, flower at all?
Who takes the trouble--or the joy--to make all these things that are wasted, wasted...

It was uncanny.
On the grass beside her, lying between two pillows, was the boy.