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By Taylor Graham
They arrive in cardboard coffins:
dry brown bulbs to be returned
to earth. With numb fingers
we bury them in mud, then wait
by the iron stove for spring.
But when we least expect it,
in the night, the scouts come
camouflaged in green. And then,
one chilled morning they explode
in flame. Brassy trumpets edged
with crimson; a frill of blood-
red around a yellow fringe.
In waves they carry us away.
What can we do but dance?
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Document last modified on: 01/06/2007