These Daffodils and I
These daffodils to the funeral came 100 years ago
and still surround the grave.
Why this one in the whole field of stones?
Only the daffodils remember,
only the daffodils know.
These daffodils were planted by the front door
and once tended with care,
like yellow ribbons beckoning her solider back there.
Did he make it back? No one knows anymore,
but these daffodils stand, still sentinels as before.
No family, no home, no memories remain.
What made them decide
to leave one day?
Ask the cheerleaders of decay,
because only these daffodils can say.
I buried these bulbs before the baby came.
I wanted them to honor him this time every spring.
He's gone now, along with every other thing,
but the daffodils and
I stand just the same.
These daffodils, I know, are tired and tossed
despite their cheerful
yellow outward gloss.
These daffodils, I know they know the cost,
of a lifetime spent hovering over all that is lost.
