Harold’s crayon 
of choice was purple.
Mother Nature
selected another hue
from the Crayola box.
The color of sunshine.
Before the green
of leaves and grass,
and the purple of lilac,
and the pink of crabapple,
her crayon touches
the forsythia.
Spindly sticks awash
with yellow flowers. 
Her crayon moves to
hillsides that suddenly
sway with seas of daffodils.
With a deft hand, she 
continues to color, in
sometimes incongruous places,
daffodils, alone 
and in clusters,
that blink hello to
passing cars
from roadsides
at every turn.
For e. e. cummings,
Spring was “mud-luscious”
and “puddle-wonderful.”
For me, it’s simply,
delightfully, yellow.