Spring welcomes the yellow piss-beds,
gold, and green-stemmed,
endless fields of first-feed bee nectar,
Linnaeus wrote of your toxic value,
myth, or gift from the gods,
you litter the leas with cropped strands;
food, drink, and medicine
imbues your magical potion,
as some pishogue lost folk art,
though the bitter wine
flows gently into sour mouths;
strigose tassels
hang down like golden mops,
they breed the ground like a harem’s keep,
sweeping endless fields
colored in van Gogh yellow,
fever the glorious summer
of picnics, and fest beds
of sunshine.
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