Yes, in the winters I would walk there,
And with roses in my hand,
Careful not to let them scratch me,
As I stripped them of their thorns,

In the summers I went wandering
Into abandoned fields-
Pillaging the wildflowers,
And tearing trophies from their stems,

Life was mine for the taking,
So I put it in a crystal vase-
I made a gift of it to mother,
And she left it on the window sill,

Yes, in the springtime I chased swallowtails,
And heliopterans,
Containing butterflies in jars
To watch their graceful freedom,

I wanted them to stay with me,
But had to let them go,
For I knew the life of a prisoner,
And gave them their release,

In autumn I cried into the trees
And waited for their reply,
But they shed their leaves and wept for me,
Which left me more empty than before,

Some winters I still walk there,
With roses in my hand,
To tell my mother of how I've missed her,
And how she'll never understand.