a yellow fabric just as vibrant and brilliant as the golden tulips that grow in the banks of the fields in which innocence and laughter roams.
A young woman cloaked in such material searched for that of her hearts content, a romance that would file suit in the realm of the books she would read.
She was hopeful, and the springtime was her catalyst. The earth was replenishing, coming back to life, the tulips springing to life and the days were longer, the sun brighter and the clouds less dreary and forlorn.
He skin was soft, untouched by that of another, but she wanted to change that. Her sheltered mind ached for the touch of a lover, a prince of sorts, and she'd wait for him, no matter the length of time, no matter the cost, no matter the physical or emotional transgressions. She'd wait alongside the tulips, alongside the budding of spring, the scorching of summer, the closing of fall, and the harboring of winter.
She'd wait in her gown of yellow, just as vibrant as the tulips around her.