Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Buttercup

Buttercup grows wild and free wherever they wish to be.

Laid down as a carpet of yellow for all to see.

In a green field of blades of growing lawn pressed upon the earth.

And just to prove their mettle, just to indicate their worth,

No florist will gather them up in a bouquet to sell upon the street;

No hurried batch of scurrying passers-by will leave them in defeat.

Untamed, bending freely with the low rustling winds of days

They stand testament to life's humble, simple ways.

The greatest triumph is not the dollar placed upon their head,

Rather it is the yellow tarpaulin on quiet fields they've spread.

Their little bit of existence brings color to this drab and dreary world

With merely the buttercup's little hint of heaven elegantly unfurled.

Bowing not to kings and queens nor to beggars do they cater.

All are welcome to view their majesty now and then, or later.

It cost so much for our meager weary, mortal souls

Overlooking such beauty will surely take its toll.

I did not know humility till I saw them so lowly to the ground

With dirt and weed and insect so graciously they're found.

And I will scoop a bunch up to tickle the bottom of my chin,

Turning myself into a bit of a buttercup for that simple min.

For but a single moment in all of time we are one through and through.

I become the buttercup and it becomes me too.

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