Permafrost

In the spring, when the days grow longer and the reawakening sun melts away the bitter cold of winter, yellow poppies bloom. There, at the junction where the tree line of an ancient stand of long needle pines form a fertile triangle with the sandy marsh trail and the bayou shore, is where I buried you in the hard, frozen ground. The swath of wildflowers hide where I mutilated the earth to break through the ice, covering you with a bouquet of color as bright as your smile.