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Flora and Her Sisters
by
Martin Cooney
The winter killed
my sisters and me.
It was the same as last year. I remember cold and darkness, and how the snow fell in gleaming sheets
over our golden hair, green outfits, and brown boots. We lay there, dead, for months.
But, the snow is gray now, mixed
with grit, and melting--sometimes in the mornings and evenings I hear the music of songbirds. Soon my sisters and I will emerge
once more to feel sunlight, rain, and wind.
The little boy who lives nearby might be the first to see us.
He'll
come scampering around the corner and suddenly stop--put his hand to his mouth. He'll wish his mother was there so he could
tell her. But she'll be in the house or out doing something. She won't be able to help him. One of my sisters will catch hold
of his ankle... while the rest of us rise from the muck, hungry for warmth.
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