She opened up her mouth to speak

But all that tumbled from her lips were oak leaves

That danced and twirled as they drifted to the floor.

The others snatched them up and displayed them,

Noting how the leaves glinted in the light.

They trimmed the vines growing from her shoulders

And the clover from her collarbone

And the ferns on her hips

To fit inside her gown.

When they found her lying motionless on the forest floor,

Eyes glazed and hands cold,

Lilacs bursting from between her lips,

They reached inside her mouth

To the place deep inside where the wildflowers rooted

And tugged until they snapped the stalks.

They wiped the wet blood from the stems and from her lips,

Folded her hands over her chest,

Placed the bouquet in her palms,

And stepped back to admire the beauty of it all.