Buttercup, That Laughing Flower
Tell me a buttercup story
(that drip of dropped sunshine)
without sliding down the stem
to root and rain. A story whose
effect floats free from its cause.
A day-after-tomorrow story,
and make it good. Today’s
words fell out of the envelope
to bleed on the floor and all
the soap and water in the world
won’t wash them away. So talk
to me of yellow. Number 2 pencils
and Vincent’s chair, the yellow
brick road and hot-dog mustard,
all things that stand without
backstory—the perennials
of the mind—true and fresh
yesterday as tomorrow. Yes,
tell me a story of buttercups,
not orchids or hot-house roses,
but these pilgrims of simple
happy, flashing at our feet.