Gift

There is a buttercup peaking up from the soil,

the morning sun a slanted blanket

It is plucked by a child for his bouquet

Petals soft, dewy

Torn, discolored

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But it is perfect

Wrinkled cheeks are malleable, rising easy

It is perfect, she says

Buttercup bouquets hug the store walls,

Slouched in on themselves,

Shuddering next to 

carnations and roses

Dressed up in sheer plastic as their bridal veils

Petals 

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The buttercups are waiting for

The passerbys 

Are waiting for

The right occasion

“Someday”

The petals have been wilting

Cut, kept

To see the sun again

They rot

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