I ambled idly on the mound
That hosted snowflakes, drops and squills,
Enticing Springtime all around,
A flush, of first-year daffodils;
Beside the wood, beneath the leaves,
A bursting choir of golden sheaves…
In Wordsworth’s song, and camera’s eye,
These arms outstretched with spathe and bud,
All raising cups towards the sky,
In sanguine cheer from where I stood;
And from the kitchen window cills
I picture next year’s daffodils…
♠♥♠
