I do not love you, golden flower, and cannot extol your delicate petals, your sunburned face, nor your lissom grey-green stem. I cannot even see them. I only see the coruscating swaths draping the undulating hills. You are but a dot in Bob Ross’s happy little painting. A dot that can be done without. An insignificant piece of yellow that only matters when combined with hundreds of thousands of others. Without them, you are worse than damned. You are unseen.