In the meadow,

I met the last Queen Anne’s Lace,

she didn’t get the word,

missed the memo,

turned off her notifications

“Didn’t you get the word?,” I asked,

“your sisters are gone,

you are all alone.”

She bobbed in the wind,

wary, independent, it seemed.

“I don’t care what the others do,”

she said, “I am always alone,

I am that rarest of flowers,

no one gets to define me,

I make my own decisions, I

am here until I choose to leave,

take your photo and please,

just move along.”