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I plucked you mistaking your tiny, green hood relegating you chaff with the rest of the weed pile. Then, a bit of your orange skirt tugged at my eye and you were rescued. I placed you among a happy gang of cornflowers and marguerites, in my mother's best Limoges with faint hope you would survive. Yet, at next dawn you stretched toward morning, doffing your cap (and my sleepy doubt) in florescent bloom.