It's pure joy, this flower for a child in a covert land
     Beautiful and growing in this distraught, connected world
It's changing its message to the child, as its colors turn inside-out.

     A blurred bud, mocking with its pretense,
All the young one hears, is a council of forgotten remembrances.

     This flower of hope, as empty as a hospital bed.

Not one. Two; one-two-one one-two-one; Fever.
     Dancing in the fire light.
There is nothing left here but fear in comfort and fever.

     Twisting symbols of dancing red
Blending with blues
     Around and into stoic and barren, steadfast gold.

Dancing red comforts the child's disdain for fear.

     The young child sees the heart in this rose,
Remembers growing fond of the pretense.
     Watches as the red goes white, mystery gone.

Fever, gone.