I have been growing hope in your backyard, in secret, lining it silently behind the white petals of petunias and lilies you smell everyday before the sunrays kiss the feet of your grass filled garden. There is so much beauty and serenity dripping down your hazel brown eyes, which cry every night for all the untold myriad losses your bones have braved. You smile like those abandoned flowers, your mother left to wither, after your father's cremation, for they reminded her of his gentle words and kind heart. And the courage in your crimson cheeks expands as you see the sun, rise every morning, tirelessly, blazing all alike. You carry those petals to decorate your hair and your heart, scenting your presence with the golden hope, my hands weaved for you.