In a green grass field, along a dull blue river, she picked a bouquet of flowers.

First, she took a little white daisy in her grasp, plucking it from its flimsy stem.

Then, some soft purple violets joined the little lifeless white daisies.

Next to be tossed in her wilting wicker basket, three yellow daffodils—

followed by dry red poppies, not for healing, just for looks. 

In her little house on a rough brown outlook on a stout grey mountain,

she pulled out a worn glass vase; a chip along the rim left a little white rip on her thumb.

With heavy feet, she made her way over to the grey sink and filled it with colorless water.

She set the vase on her brown kitchen table and began to slowly place the flowers in the water.

In a field of golden grasses, along a river of deepest crimson, she picked a bouquet of flowers.

First, she pulled from the ground a blushing cerise colored daisy. 

Next, a lively lime hyacinth jumped in to join.

Then, cyclamens of the fieriest scarlet were tossed into the polychromatic bunch.

A jade camellia. An electric lilac anemone. A sunflower of the creamiest lavender.

Beside her little home tucked beneath a royal plum waterfall on a majestic crimson mountain,

she knelt in the rust-red ground and pulled a small hand shovel from where it rested.

With slow, precise movements she pulled the ground up and away,

and filled the holes with the roots of the prismatic flowers.

When she had set the flowers down in their new homes,

she picked up her hose and began to fill the flowers with life.