What’s Up, Buttercup?

I’ve fallen into yellow since Kimme wore sunflower lace beside her Godspeed cake on Sunday.

That night, I searched online for a shirt-in-sunflower-shades, closing tabs for the thrill of the thrift; prospecting for gold.

Yellow.

The word lingers in the voice of a little girl, summoned from bygone Baby Van Goghs, bathed in butterscotch and sunshine, yellowing at the edges.

The true Van Gogh chased brilliant light, painting Sunflowers, Wheatfields, The Yellow House.

And yet, I have never coveted this color, have I?

Perhaps that changed when Peloton Ally peeled off her neon lemon sleeve, too hot for a HIIT? Note to self: Sweet. As. Honey.

Sweat streams down a chromatic canvas, persistent and bright as a pet canary on North Post Road.

Alone at Amwell Lake, beneath serenading Orioles, Common Yellowthroats, I shoot Stinking Willie from all sides, swamp grass staining my knees.

I am back in Cambridge, wandering Storey’s Field amidst ragwort rimming the most intriguing fen, where once I spotted a fox and again, a Muntjac.

“Look how they shine for you and everything you do. Yeah, they were all yellow.”

Saffron stories turn to suffering along Woosamonsa, as a Swallowtail careens into my car grill, dropping sallow atop Double. Yellow. Lines.

Gripping fingers, climbing arms, crossing shoulders, caressing deadwood, toppling away on dandelion breezes, broken wings.

Hues of happiness and tragedy. Please forgive me.

What’s up, Buttercup? I greet Hunter as he climbs the stairs — and there it is again, glowing beneath my chin!

Will tomorrow spin tales of yellow spontaneity?

I await their coming in glory.

By Diana Lasseter Drake