(An impromptu poem by Dangerboy:)
It's spring. The flowers are growing in our backyard.
See? They are so beautiful!
There are no bees in this story.
The sign says you can pick the flowers.
(There are butterflies in this garden.)
And when you pick them, they don't die.
(These were the rules set out by Dangerboy as we were playing together in the hall. It's his fantasy garden--first of all, that it exists; it's pain- and fear-free; and it's immortal. Just like heaven...)
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