By Marion Brown

Color I plant with crocuses
or paint on my house, I can’t
get enough, its scent of cream
right before it turns. A blonde
pat spreads on a swarthy square
of toast. Butter changes its tune
in the oven-warm kitchen,
longing to slouch into froth.
Melted butter, you are top
of the morning on pancakes,
but you will never swim
on my coffee. Bitter
does not need an oil skim.

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