By Micah Lee
I see a flower in a vast see of dry green grass up on a hill. The flower starts with a green stem and works its way up to bright white petals reaching toward the sun. At the middle of the flower the color fades to dark bold pink which sinks into yellow stalks that bolt straight up. The grass in which this flower sits has white lines through it and silver bleachers set up for sports. The over look is of high majestic mountains which are pressed against a fuzzy white background that reaches out into a crisp clear sky. When ever I see mountains I think of West Virginia and all its windy roads. As I think about this I am sitting on those silver bleachers, in that field, looking at those mountains, and imagining that flower.
I see a flower in a vast see of dry green grass up on a hill. The flower starts with a green stem and works its way up to bright white petals reaching toward the sun. At the middle of the flower the color fades to dark bold pink which sinks into yellow stalks that bolt straight up. The grass in which this flower sits has white lines through it and silver bleachers set up for sports. The over look is of high majestic mountains which are pressed against a fuzzy white background that reaches out into a crisp clear sky. When ever I see mountains I think of West Virginia and all its windy roads. As I think about this I am sitting on those silver bleachers, in that field, looking at those mountains, and imagining that flower.
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