My thanks to Magpie Tales for the above prompt.

It's the prism that she's holding on to, not the flowers.
What good are flowers to the sainted dead?
A prism may have unsuspected powers.
Who knows what truths and myths
they might reflect
or analyse, the way they prise
the colours out of light?

Strange how the hands maintain their contact here.
The rest of her is lost to those like us,
but hands have ways of crossing frontiers,
of coming back from darkness, often drawn
by secrets that they know the prism holds.
How much more powerful is it
than a crystal ball?