Her again.

She stares at the window.

Watching the rain.
It falls.
It falls.
Learning to write with periods,
she's trying.
Learning to make more sense,
she's thinking.
She wonders.
How many daffodils can fit in your head?
How many buttercups can show the sun?
and dear,
why am I thinking of flowers?
She screams to herself.
Or utters.

And in truth,
she never really was so sure.