The flowers borne of winter rose like tiny dark skeletons. They broke earth as light strengthened, black pins that sliced soil and awkwardly unfolded into form. Brittle as sheet ice, they were ghosts made of pale days; paper-thin corpses that resurrected under the breath of air. Bobbing in the breeze, they danced a death-dance, for it was the only life they'd ever known, and their flower-heads shook out the bewitching scent of sleep.
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