The Exchanges
Raised up by earlier than early spring
the daffodils thrust their honking horns
at the promise of this newness, earned again
by slumbering through last year’s losses.
Zach placed them in a deep red bowl
(one Mama Sal fancied for its shade
and reasonable price at the Goodwill Store)
and watered their toes to keep them dancing.
I will not have to climb poetic hills
to hear these honking daffodils.
I know preserving short-lived thrills
breeds sadness when they soon fade;
that’s one of life’s favorite drills.
But predicted snow might have chilled
them sooner if my grandson hadn’t cut
them in the sunlight before the storm.
They will survive a day or two, I hope,
buoyed up by the beauty of the bowl.
I will greet them every time I pass,
the yellow honkers in the deep red glass.
Then I’ll tote them to the compost bin
where they may blend to foster life again.
How charmed I was that, when Zach
brought the blooms, I could give my celiac
boy gluten free cookies from the spring rite
of the girl scouts outside the Safeway store,
the rite Mama Sal helped run years before.
May he savor them a day or maybe more,
suffering not one jot, not an inkling of ills.
Thanks, Zach, for the honking daffodils.
Copyright © Bill Keen | Year Posted 2019
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