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Buttercups



Daffodils

My momma called you buttercups

when you kissed the end

of Tennessee winter.

Your eager green fingers,

couriers of March,

yawned...

stretching up the ultimate yellow.

Like the sun itself was rolled through a tight metal wringer,

cranked ‘til all the bright ran out.

A vibrant paint.

A cheery shout

of SPRING!

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