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Here's the stuff we found when you searched for "Over her simple white lawn dress she wore an apron with pink and white checks, and in one hand she held a pair of scissors"

In a quiet grove of pines under a frosty sky, he helped her out of the sack. She wore severe white hospital pajamas and was beautiful.
She sat in virginal white, eyes closed, with only her face in rose
She opened her eyes, looked at a world made entirely of white light
She always confused her greys with white.
it was just as if she held her breath for 82 years
You put a hand on her hip, she permits it.
she , billowing apparation, inimitable white sheet
When she woke up, her hands were still dreaming
She left me on the boardwalk with my head held in my hands.
she left her handwriting all over the calendar
The emotion on her face was always the one that she was feeling in her heart
She didn't wave goodbye so much as slightly raise her hand
For the first time in either of her lives, she is held gently
The Abridged Edition: She was to one side, he was to the other, an untested bridge between them
She is the queen of accidental magic. Her used kleenexes, taken by the wind, become soulful ghosts.
She Liked Horses, and Flowers That Smell Pink
I haven't seen her in a month. She is still beautiful.
She was most amazed by the obvious, like January and the fact that I could not possibly keep her.
She keeps her lies everywhere
She Will Have Her Way: The Songs Of Tim & Neil Finn
She handed me my first sharpened pencil.
The Jackal: Episode One: A Hero Has Risen, And She Demands Worker's Comp
I don't tell her these things, and she doesn't ask
she lit her thumb on fire
She practices her speech
she gave her heart to a falling star
I told her I could read her mind, but she didn't believe me. I could tell.
She wore a bit more makeup than he generally liked
Whereas a Naked White Man, when I met one, always appear'd a new Object unto me
Like white light? Or a long low moan that turns into laughing? Or the holes in Jesus' hands?
She asked me to copy my poem into her notebook
I don't think she even knows that I make her smile
She grew a little older, while he was telling her
She does not rustle but her flesh has the moonlit shade of a silver birch
She writes notes to me, to keep me in check
She said the dance is a prayer. A prayer to toss into the tide all the weight of oblivion and humiliation. This is not a dance for one, fool - where are you?
why she makes her wishes at 7:07
Susan Goldman, who has cervical cancer, is partly thankful as she braces herself but changes her mind as she's sprayed with burning jet fuel.
Because I still love her, because I know she still loves me.
while she sleeps, i write myself into her life
She Will Have Her Way
She nicknamed her vagina "Crusty"
I gave her my heart, she tore it apart, and who gives a fart.
She crashed her car trying to avoid a butterfly
She asked me if I loved her and I showed her the tattoo
She Called in Her Soul to Come and See
And she, with her beautiful words and such a fire burning inside
The lawn was white with doctors
The memory cuts through her like the blade she wields
In White, Behind the One in Denim
he wore black and i wore white
The White Bride and the Black One
standing on my lawn, with the scissors in your hands, and you could come in where you'd like, to my paper house
She thought about giving him her heart
She flies with her own wings
She bruised her knee. This is how we met.
She said, while hugging a bowl of turnips close to her bosom
What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?
She was a committed romantic and an anarcha-feminist. This was hard for her because it meant she couldn't blow up beautiful buildings.
Her innocence fell. She kicked at it some, frowned, and left it there because it was beautiful.
She was inside the music, with her eyes closed
I come home, she lifted up her wings. I guess that this must be the place.
She opened her eyes and spoke in a very normal voice, just as if she were sane
I was throwing around useless proverbs when all she needed was to be held and told that she was beautiful
does she need to touch her own face to know?
When she sleeps, is she not moving her legs aside for an unknown garrison?
She was so quiet that nobody heard her
if you fear spells, look away when she decides to share her hair with the wind.
A dose of mystery slipped into her cocktail while she was in the ladies' room
the way she wears her weary
She is the sea. Above her, he is thunder.
little pieces of her tragically poetic attempts at being loved that she was startlingly aware of, today
she doesn't write, doesn't tell you stories, but somehow it's her words that spring to mind at those crucial, terrifying moments, and for that you are eternally grateful
She is willing to attempt to retrieve the data. Go with her.
She disappeared as if he had only dreamed her
She picked herself up, wiping away at her dignity
i gave her my heart. she gave me a pen.
She knows no truth except her own.
A girl I know had her jaw wired shut, and she vomited.
She, the Last Leviathan. She, the Station Agent. Chin on her Palm, she Watches Every Departure.
I would have attempted to draw her if she had stayed that way.
She asked me to read her a poem
She smokes. It wraps around her wrists and clings to her neck.
Her sleeves ride up on her arms when she moves
you never once told her how beautiful she was nor how much you truly loved her
She is a night of dark trees, but he who is not afraid of her darkness will find banks full of roses under her cypresses
She said her father died of cancer in the sixties
He and she are one
Each thing she learned became part of herself, to be used over and over in new adventures
one by one their blades will grind to a halt and stand still like a white forest.
All the things she had at one point wanted to be
a little white dress
Simple spaghetti in black and white
The significance of white jet trails against the blue/pink sky
Besides the part where she was the only one
Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White
she made them, like fire, expansible over all space
That one makes me scream, she said
white-handed gibbon
Here's Me Inside Her But I Can Tell From Her Vagina She Doesn't Really Care
Fast-talking career gal who thought she was one of the boys
I don't like her because she won't like me
She ties regrets around her fingers like forget-me-knots
Robert Lionel Fanthorpe fills up the word count in a science fiction novel: she brushed her teeth
Her perception of how gorgeous she is will be evident in her lack of movement during sex
It happened to everyone else; she swore it wouldn't to her
She wears her failed relationships like a shield
She found her bliss between the headphones, and pursed her lips.
Since she whom I lov'd hath paid her last debt
She calls him Sugarcane. He calls her Hurricane.
Sometimes the apathy she saw made her want to curl up and cry
All the while he was talking she was thinking what his whiskers would feel like on the back of her neck
Would you like to penetrate her shell, insinuating yourself among the pages of the books she is reading?
Her grief is still too young to behave itself, so she never lets it out
She was never mine. I always shared her.
serene. She sips her tea
She is so beautiful, I gave up Nihilism for her
He touched her once and she turned into a golden creature. He never touched her again.
At night, her eyes closed, she would
The portion of her face she allows me to see
She plugs her tears in the way you'd keep a dam from breaking
You can play with my ex-girlfriend, but treat her like the lady that she is.
They walk around her like she is in danger of breaking
Swan Dive, Cold Feet, White Dress
she had already found her party
She gets caught in the little world beneath her sheets
Some nights, alone, he thinks of her, and some nights, alone, she thinks of him
She who leaves men as flaming wrecks in the ditch on the side of the road in her wake, yea, even submarines
She was the prettiest, loveliest cat at the ball and she had upon her fine gilded whiskers.
Her self image was not the force field she imagined it to be
Veronica loves manipulating her vagina until she explodes
She does not take her trip. She does not shout out loud.
She always was devious in her beauty
Dressed in white
Black Hand Over Europe - The Bulgarian Scene - V. The Valley of the Vardar
Why can't I get over her
i kissed her one last time, then walked out of her life forever
The one the queen keeps her eye on
Black Hand Over Europe - Pan-Slavism - III. The Shadow of Pan-Slavism
Black Hand Over Europe - Pan-Slavism - I. The Vultures
I ran over an old woman with her own car
and when all the stars have fallen one last time and the skies are crumbling into my hands and the sirens are bleeding out on the beaches and the earth fades; you will remain
a total loss of control over her life
A salted moment of memories smudged across my face, and I’ve already forgiven her. It’s all over now
pretends to sleep as he looks her over
Black Hand Over Europe - The Serbian Scene - IV. Pan-Serbism
He held my hand - once
How to cut a deck of cards with one hand
Black Hand Over Europe - The Bulgarian Scene - IV. Behind the Barbed Wires
His hand speaks a foreign language to her ribs.
Hands cupped into a half circle, he bent foward to help her catch a light
Black Hand Over Europe - Appendices: The Hidden Side of the Balkan Pact
The Lark and Her Young Ones
when still her eyes held water
Where was her angel all those times the sky clouded over
I got the feeling the Fairy Council was mad at me when the president knocked over her coffee to get a better grip on my neck
It checked every flower twice, the dead ones too
Black Hand Over Europe - The Serbian Scene - V. Propaganda
Black Hand Over Europe - The Serbian Scene - III. The Military Power
Black Hand Over Europe - Pan-Slavism - II. Czechoslovakia and Roumania
Black Hand Over Europe - The Bulgarian Scene - III. The "ORIM"
Black Hand Over Europe - The Constitution of the Serbian Black Hand
One hand in the other
Black Hand Over Europe - The Story of Petrovitch
Black Hand Over Europe - The Bulgarian Scene - II. The Macedonian Question
The old hands you’ve baked around hers
Unintentional irony and complete idiocy often go hand in hand with one another
Hand over fist
How to unclip a bra with one hand
My hands on her back; slipping into sleep
Inventors have one hand in the junk drawer
Black Hand Over Europe - The Bulgarian Scene - I. Bulgaria the Unlucky
Only her hands would give her away
One day I wrote her name upon the strand
I Met the Devil in a Pink Flower Dress
put your hand over the side of the boat
a smiling girl with blonde eyelashes and a sundress. someday i'll find her

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