On days when there are no poems to be found
When I drudge the depths of the murk
I think of Jonquils.
I get stuck on those pesky flowers
And the mental image of tiny yellow and white daffodils.
I ask myself for a poem but
From somewhere else
The whisper comes:
Poems must be about Jonquils.
You can’t have a poem without Jonquils.
I need to write about
write some more about
So, as a poet who has learned from other poets, I research.
A native of Spain and Portugal.
Grows in open spaces and forests and at the edges of lawns
Like little poems
that push their way up through the late spring snow
Vast white sheets spread for acres
On my desk top.
I stare at them and wait for a poem to happen.
From the corner of a page
A yellow tipped bud appears—
And nothing else.