On my dislike of daffodils…


I just don’t like daffodils
although I adore Spring and hope’s
resurrection, the greening
of life pushing through earth and bark,
occupying spaces abandoned,
but those pale perennials leave me unimpressed;
yes, they are often first, but to what end,
as for some life is a race that goes to the swiftest
which I never seem to win and therefore don’t value,
but these wisps are the stuff of memories because they
so quickly and ingloriously fade, to one humbly
bowing, to another pristine yellow, a cup
for fairies, brave but beaten but persistent
each year with stingy fragrance of painful pleasure,
to one in solitude in competition with
Wordsworth’s sprightly dancing ten thousand
which still fail to impress my jaded temperament,
because I do not wish to dance with his daffodils.