Journey of a Flower
What is this, the danger of growth?
The daffodil succumbs to that risk late summer,
falling below the musty mulch,
no longer in rhythm
with the events taking place above.
Waits through the wintry mix
for the warmth of the March sun
to begin poking its arms
through the shards of birchwood.
rolls it golden saffron head around
neck stiffening slightly
in an effort to awaken.
Begins to lift up its chin and unfurl its face,
outstretch it arms.
The pendulum of progress
forces the full bloom of the flower.
Oh how dangerous
to be made noticeable for the singular act
of living, breathing, growing
out of the shadows of the dwarf cherry tree
or pink spirea bush with its fairy dust blooms,
each time discovering new strength
should the frost come to strip away
its sunny disposition
or feet tread upon it.
Its bulbs still multiply beneath,
Its soul still spreading the good word.
That is the nature of the daffodil,
it refuses to stay stagnant, below the ground forever.
Rilke once said, ‘Live everything.’
And the daffodil risks rising before the calendar says its time.