She sat before the easel, mixing oils on a palette. The scene we both were looking at was the scene I wrote on pad. Her strokes and colors by impression from somewhere in her mind. My words described the daffodil— hard, like yellow polished steel. Together we made our impressioned strokes for so delicate a plant. Both had said before we started, a flower has but one true role. But with so many other traits, let’s give it something more. We’re past the stage of bearing kids, let’s take the flower’s goal, And change the two from making seeds to making weak things strong.