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Look, blossoms and buds!
Once dead now bloom, these wild violets and glories of the morning.

Trees—shepherds of nature, towers of might—stand watching. Blades of grass—crowds awaiting—step aside.

Pictures imprinted, embedded, reflected. These gentle whispers are breathed into action.

I want to identify this taste of spring, so I pull my father’s dusty field guide of Wisconsin Wildflowers down off the shelf. From between the pages, a pressed Forget-Me-Not slides into the palm of my hand.

“I forget you not,” a whisper, a surprise, a sudden burst.

But beauty bursts forth from sorrow—this wild, unwieldy, wrestling before the surprise of reverence.

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