There, a spanning field, and here, brown flowers bloom: light, crisp, cold; drenched in April rain. These woeful acorn daisies. Far from kindling homes, where dead flowers dream in blues and greens. Where the grass twists up into knotted figurines: ugly, organic idols that mock the mottled earth. Yes, they come to pieces in our calloused hands, and crumble in the warming wind, but here they float like kisses, suffering the last days of Spring.