With Apologies to Wordsworth


I don't really care what Wordsworth would think.
I am a daffodil that rose in a Spring which is always changing,
and given that it's cold outside, the wet vapour of nourishment
is not from any rain outside but from the mist of frozen things
inside me I am allowing to melt and simply, become.
But it isn't easy. I rise with a Spring that doesn't
tell me when it's going to happen and here we are,
lying under the warmth of a soil that senses us,
seed-saplings splitting with the honesty of change.
There is dirt in my mouth and over my eyes
for all the instances that I wish I could have been better.
I could not force myself into the sun
when I wanted the dark for so long.
I have hurt and have been hurt, but the latter
doesn't matter when it's hands that claw
and then bandage up the wounds.
I'll say 'I'm sorry' until I do it again.
Face a reflection that faces me and the
pale petal opens up: and yellow is deceiving.
It isn't always happy. Know I'm rooted in nothing but
dainty, dainty promises to be better:
before the warmth of the soil that proclaims a beginning
before the warmth of a soil we won't feel when it's the end
and the daffodils will be growing above us.

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