This poem that i wrote is about the story marigolds:
A flashback memory of a girl about fourteen. On the verge of deciding what her life should be. Still like a child playing in dust, but wondering when womanhood should erupt.
Running through dirt, throwing some rocks, annoying the neighbor, a witch, said through talk.
The witch seemed to be magic because of her flowers, always in bloom, all of the hours.
Later that night, she overheard talk, about her father’s work no longer in stock. She ran through the night tears in her eyes, until she came upon the witch house, she stood terrified in fright. But she did not care, she ran through the flowers, ripping them up until there were no more night hours.
The witch suddenly appeared small but frightening, she looked at her marigolds as they were stricken by lightning. But the witch did not shout, in fact she looked sad, for her flowers were pretty much the only thing she had.
A flashback memory of a girl about fourteen. On the verge of deciding what her life should be. Still like a child playing in dust, but wondering when womanhood should erupt.
Running through dirt, throwing some rocks, annoying the neighbor, a witch, said through talk.
The witch seemed to be magic because of her flowers, always in bloom, all of the hours.
Later that night, she overheard talk, about her father’s work no longer in stock. She ran through the night tears in her eyes, until she came upon the witch house, she stood terrified in fright. But she did not care, she ran through the flowers, ripping them up until there were no more night hours.
The witch suddenly appeared small but frightening, she looked at her marigolds as they were stricken by lightning. But the witch did not shout, in fact she looked sad, for her flowers were pretty much the only thing she had.
