listen up, buttercup

[listen up, buttercup]

“hurry up, buttercup”

the flowers are blooming and it reminds me of my mother
and riding my bike slowly on oak manor drive
walking by my side
i miss how she called out my name
at that age
like a flower

“hurry up, buttercup”

she’d paint her face in pollen
rubbing petals of purple and pink and yellow
back and forth across her nose
all my life i’ve tried to paint my body
with buttercups of my own
but my face never looked quite as gold

you can’t force buttercups, it seems
yet i bargain with them every spring
fresh dirt on my feet
because when the flowers are blooming it reminds me of my mother

“listen up, buttercup”

i am a mother now
wondering
do all daughters giggle at the sound
of buttercups?
or do they bloom just for me?

“listen up, buttercup”

i’m painting my face in pollen
i’m rubbing petals
purple
pink
yellow
back and forth across my nose

well?
do i look gold?

tell me, buttercup
do i look gold?

or do they bloom just for me?
you can’t force buttercups, it seems

[on repeat]

until next time. -cd