How to resist the sultry whisper
of a bed of daffodils in April?
A luxurious lie, a gilded mask
to obscure the russet earth from view.
I tear my eyes away
and pursue a path
marked by the crackling sound
of dry, feral grasses in tête-à-tête with the wind.
The real yellow here is a smattering of wildflower
that refuses to sleep with rich topsoil,
instead eloping with the renegade red earth.
Original composed 23 April 2010, completed 26 September 2010
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