She held my hand and showed Me her husbands thorny past. As in you can still find patches of Green with sharp pointy canyons Between what seperates life and reality. She stuck with the hopes of using lady bug magic To clear the bugs off of a less then perfect flower. It worked because her judgement ingnored the first Fragrance of spring. Though still winter she gets always gets Ready for a new start in spring. So she will be ready to sing All over the wishing well and look through the wooden frame To picture how we hold hands in a public garden On a gravel path packed in with every foot step.