The butterscotch sunlight is warm and palpable in my hands- I mold it into a ring, slipping it onto my finger, joining us together. Tall, pale aspen trees stand in solemn observation; the names of previous visitors, carved into their chalky arms, are the only witness. You weave a wreath of yellow daisies for me, and you say that I’m beautiful as they tangle sweetly in my golden hair.

“You’re welcome,” you say.

“For what?” I ask. Your fingertips brush my cheeks. I shiver, and so do the aspens. But it is a pleasant shiver.

“For the roses.” My curious eyes scour the meadow, but I see no red- only green, white, brown, and butterscotch sunlight. You laugh gently, and the soft sound brings me back to you. “The roses are here, in your blush.” I feel it deepen, and I bury my face in your chest, embarrassed. You laugh again, and the wreath of daisies falls from my head. I smile, too.

With careful hands you tuck a lock of hair safely behind my ear, and replace the crown. I lay back and the wildflowers welcome me into their arms; the cool grass teases my skin. You show me stories in the clouds.

The chittering gossip of the cicadas and the steady revolution of the earth underneath my body make me drowsy. I don’t want this to end- I fight to drink in all the colors and smells and everythings I can. Bu I am overpowered, and I close my eyes on the beauty around me. As the afternoon ebbs wordlessly into evening, the crown of daisies and I go to sleep, and my butterscotch ring vanishes with the sun.