Montana has a flower

Grown high on rocky ground

Pale pink in life, frail white in death

Grandma believed in little people

Fairies who played wicked pranks

and jokes

Bright dancing cascading beating rhythms

  Alex Hastings, little boy with dreams of drums

      I watched your planting of his widest flowering fields

I awoke and you were gone. 

What has become of my husband?

Til death do us part.