Daffodil - Mary McMillan

[Larry Robinson]

Daffodil

If she could speak
as she drives her bloom
 
to open, would she tell us of
the roots beneath her,
 
who were digging alone all winter 
in frozen soil, sending out
 
moaning tendrils reaching into 
the unknown, each one
 
sensing in dreams what’s needed 
by the big one, who’s working 
 
at the surface, chatting and dividing 
in maternal bliss, her big bulb bumping into
 
what is already known? 
Would she tell of each 
 
tough rope of root muscling below
to find water, sucking and storing,
 
offending gophers, outwitting moles?  
I doubt it.  The bloom knows
 
her source, but she doesn’t speak
its language.  Her voice celebrates
 
the silk of longer warmer days,
announces, in her yellow voice, It is time
 
to heave away 
the heavy coat of winter,
 
worn out now, and way too small.  
She clamps her neck to her fierce
 
rigid stem, who whispers into her throat 
his message from below:  Dear, our time is ending.
 
It means nothing.  We will begin.  
Begin to let go.  


	- Mary McMillan