By Field and Stream

It happens every spring
this urgent call that comes
from roadsides, fields, stream edge

blooms blurring as they wave
along highways until it’s hard
to tell Ox-eye or Fleabane

perfect disks: lemon plates
encircled by white petals
popping up in fence line

and fields, some nibbled
by night deer leaving naked
corolla mutations staring

at the sky like errant dandelions
I leave for their startling beauty
snipping long stems, leaving buds

to bloom tomorrow until
I can fist no more, carrying them
then to the purple vase

where they will drink and dance
in the breeze from the ceiling fan
this gathering a favorite May activity.

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