isn’t it amazing how the
1-2–3—4—-5—–six——seven——-
daffodils are a peaceful bunch,
no pushing, no shoving, no arguments.
they are all yellow but not
the same yellow, some dark,
some lighter, some not even
aware of their size or height.
each stem slants a certain way
in the middle of the winter.

if you close your eyes
all sound will become pianissimo
like daffodil fluttering.
you might even think it’s a
butterfly embryo.
i can tell that none of them
know when they were born,
none of them know when
they will kiss death
in the bitter cold of freezing.

it doesn’t matter or
so it seems to me
they wave and sway
they stretch toward the moon
they smile in the raining.
one is gone and then two
and then just a shadow,
across the sunset outline,
of what has been,
a remembrance of beauty.
tiptoe through the tulips
with me
during the winter