The daffodill and I

Each in our own way


Changing even as examined, admired,

Our brightness more so as it fades

Our color but a snapshot of an instant

Of a moment

And so we are, for this second, the flower

With its center like a woman’s skirts

As she twirls

Its outer petals a longer, stronger twirl

The woman’s legs beneath under her jocund

Dress, a petticoat of butter under a skirt

Of sun

Its brown paper wrapping stem changed

To full green stalk

And me

In my pink pajamas with the stars

And moons and no desire to sleep

Writing with hands that are no longer

The smooth brown petals of childhood

The small flare of fingers, but the wrinkles

And slack skin, the reddened knuckles

Of adulthood

And still puzzled by time, by sleep,

By flowers, and by myself; the daffodil

Does not contemplate

Such things—

In its small glass vase it trumpets

Its petals of fresh spring days, its clear yellow

Clarion call, and I wish I could sing too

Put on my yellow skirts, twirl, whirl

And dance.



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