Sunflowers sway in the breeze-independent, as we may be, someday-
before their petals fall victim to a child's game, predictions of love,
of the future, of life beyond the palm trees and slanted driveway.
These trees, they grew up with us to view our artless tribulations, and
they will remain long after we're gone.

And I wonder if the marks on the wall are still there, the evidence of
growth through knee bruises and paper valentines. Or were they painted
over,
erased to make way for the paths of new lives? Even what is
etched in stone cannot last forever, let alone written in pencil.

Never will I forget the scent of white roses, a breath of fresh air in the
midst of
stifled words. They seemed to dance in the wind, carrying hidden within
white petals
memories of former days. Long gone also, like the overly-bright sun that
seemed to
never give way to pitch-black midnights during lemonade summers.

It is only a reminiscence now, yet another reminder of the changing
definition of "home."
Just one more time, while dusk evolves into night, we'll pull petals off
sunflowers and
dream of better days.