They shone in my hands, my daffodils:
clutched bare in my palms without paper,
with innocent yellow faces
gleaming like babies
shivering with anticipation,
excited to be outside when spring is brand new,
and the sunshine watches over the street
for the first time since September.
They set my bus alight, my daffodils:
old crochety ladies, staring ahead,
beamed up at me as I fumbled for the bell,
recognition in their faces
collusion in their eyes,
because they know these flowers are evidence
of a fond romantic gift for someone
whose face glows with the spring.
Actually I bought them myself.
They sit here now beside me on the desk,
persuading me I’m not alone.
May 1995