Ode to the Daffodil
You confront me, rising arrogantly
at the first of March alongside every path
and in and out of gardens. Tufts of green
threatening flower, I have nothing new
to tell you. Never once did I set a bulb
going, pocketed in the earth. I have waited
an entire winter to only know more winter.
Yellow lanterns, clusters of bright faces,
fist-clenched constellations, I’ll see you
dusted with snow I’m sure next Thursday.
I’ll see you bow your heads in despair
as I’ve bowed mine to pray for life
to spring up once more from the lonely dirt.
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