Who will weep for them
when once winter comes again?
Who cries for their passing
before first snow has fallen?
Mourns, the garden's lack of gaeity
made so tangible
by their sweet buttery petals,
those silly yellow flowers.
The tall and proud,
they do.
They sulk for the entire season,
heads bowed,
petals cast off in reverence
patiently awaiting them
and the ever returning Spring.
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