What He Said

          My shadow on the daffodils,

spawns of March-dawning earth.

Yellow in the shade still

radiating beneath the youth-

invigorating lamplight 'cross the road.

​

          The white mistress makes her entrance

through the hardened veil, sprawling

atop the green-cloaked landing—

She is the midnight moon whom slips

her flowing gown.

​

          Old grandfather reprimands in ding

flogging tones. Sinister are his undulations. 

"Life’s too short to give a damn, but not short

enough to get away with it," he says.

​

          The canary-hued bloom will pale by

mid-June and I by mid-afternoon.

​

          Now is the time, else not ever,

before the hour Madam Discus goes out

and the daffodils blind.