The Meadow’s Keeper

At the edge of the meadow, she paused to check whether the flowers had remembered her. They had. Small red heads leaned toward her ankles, and the grasses whispered the name she used before she learned to answer to anyone else. By sunset, she had gathered enough wildness to last the winter: a thorn in her sleeve, pollen on her cheek, and one stubborn moth nesting in her hair. She left the meadow smiling, though it followed her for three steps.