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Daffodil yellow and the frill of their edges when I was a girl.
The white, a moment with narcissus, the demurring and pitying smiles of ladies in waiting, the whispered trill of laughter as they danced down the tall, stone, halls – she loves narcissus, she loves narcissus flowers – well she should, well she should, as she weds the living breathing man himself.
I’ll wed in April I said, I’ll wed when the dew is like diamonds upon the white of narcissus and the deep red of its heart like the beating of mine exists to please the eye. My pale, tall groom, so stoic and waiting – I remember being a young girl and not really knowing.
I wed in June as all brides do – I longed for the cool of April. He stood so tall, so austere as in my dream, my knight of…
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