The yellow rays of light dance off the blanket.
Children run around with rose cheeks.
They see the glitter fall from the heavens.

All is calm.
All is peaceful.
All is seemingly right.

All is a marriage.

A hope.
A fantasy.
A wish.

A dream of something better.

Yet perhaps it is a passion or a legacy.
A prospect for something better.
To get away from all that is bad.
And sometimes, that which is good.

Change shapes the world.
Wether for the best.
Or for the worst.

The children are blind.
They are the roses.
The protected jewels.

As age grasps them in hand and tooth,
The rose wilts.
The white blanket melts.

Now the world is white and bleak.
Love becomes a financial prospect.
The cold winter air embraces as an old friend.
A chill runs down the spine, it is not welcome.

Now it is merely a dream of getting to a warm fire place.
Not staying out until fingers are numb.
Those days are behind.
We are an asphodel.