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"Give Me Buttercups" 

Give me buttercups, a small fistful
with the roots still attached. Sprinkle 
clumps of dirt on my living room floor as you 
make your way to the kitchen for 
water and a vase. Leave the roses, 
in their burgundy glory, sitting 
on the florist's counter. Let them be 
gazed upon and wither, slowly.
But give me buttercups
plucked fresh from a field,
because then I'll know that our love
will bloom again each spring, and 
not be something that is purchased
off some store shelf once a year.
So give me buttercups,
and leave the roses at home. 

Author:
"Ginny"
A writer at Spyder's Poetry Empire^®