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.