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In the buds of spring, poets presume innocence
-I see the clenched fists of women
Defiant against winter's injustice yelling
“I am beautiful, I am beautiful, I will never be anything but beautiful”
Teething on six a m frost- we, anything but fragile- blossom resilient
We, anything but gentle- stand with fists shaking to the sky
The fists of my grandmother, of my mother, of my aunt, of my sisters, my own among them
All trembling on my magnolia tree
-“I am free, I am free, I will never be anything but free”
We will open our white sinless palms skyward unquestioningly
So even God can marvel at our unforgiving strength
Our bloodied tulips triumph-never pleading with patriarchy for approval-
of whom does a tulip need approval?
-I have never been so beautiful as in spring
My daisy petaled fingers will never be trampled on
Up through cracks in concrete my dandelion convictions will persist
-Whitman keep your yawps- we unbarbaric shall sing our chorus nineteen times
I have never been so free as in spring

Never yearn for a white picket fence, girl
Rather dream of a white magnolia tree on which your fists can shake in spring