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.
Thin spiral notebook 
Lovely, simply lovely but, at the same time, not at all! To do that takes some doing. Well done, Tara!
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I love this story. It’s sad, but a little creepy and hopeful at the same time. (Blooming flowers lift my spirits.)
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Excellently written….
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The use of the word “mutilated” was perfect here-it definitely conveys an undertone of dark under the bright boquet. Excellent!
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Thank you! I was very specific with that word – mutilated. I was trying to show a sort of frenzied madness in hacking at the hard dirt to dig this grave.
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A little sad a little mysterious.
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Great work
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Underneath the beauty of your descriptions lies a darkness. Chilling.
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That was the feeling I was going for… a touch of the sinister.
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wow. not sure what else to say, but wow. beautiful language. tragic scene. loved it.
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Thank you so much for your kind words.
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Hoping it was a dear pet. Such a lovely write!
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Thanks! I’m glad you liked it.
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How melancholy. I love it.
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I hoped this piece would come across like that… and little sad, a little dark.
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