I look her way and catch her eye,

She leads me where the wood seclude.

The clearing opens up the sky,

We find ourselves in solitude.

Dressed in gowns with lace and frills,

We waltz among the daffodils.

winter ends-

in a symphony of flutes and violins,

the clouds tatter

and the sun creeps through

a flat expanse-

dead for a while now,

still cloaked in frost

but now cluttered with green shoots

leaves and stems-

reaching for the sky,

buds forming

tiny promises

in the midday sunlight-

daffodils blossom

petals displayed

finally emerging after too long

from ancient times, self-bsession was seen as wrong. Narcissus constantly looking down at the reflection, was forever preserved to us with both a flower and a sad psychosis.

the distance one crosses, from childhood fascination with the self, and the self-devouring selfies is not too far.

but what can be done?

can you tell a child to stop looking at the mirror? what do you do if she asks why?

the wise thought they could solve this by a story. a cautionary tale: look to much at that reflection, and you may end up as a garden ornament. yellow even, if you really piss the gods off.

but then, here’s the rub: if she doesn’t listen, what then?

look at the former, hopefully soon-to-be-convicted-daffodil-in-chief . did he hear the voice of reason? did he hear of daffodils growing up?

couldn’t he see that the road he would lead many would be to become garden flowers as well? possibly leaning more towards black and white striped?

maybe he heard the story, but felt no guidance. perhaps that is the issue with narcassists; they want for love or guidance in their childhood, and make up for it in such a way..

she hasn’t looked at her reflection in a long while.

passing glance maybe,

distracted while brushing her teeth.

unAble to look herself in the eye.

nothing like the harsh truth of natural light and a clear mirror to see reality.

no one can pause time.

doesn’t matter how much she ignores the mirror.

treating it as an object she’s vaguely aware of that blends with the walls.

that occasional glimmer of light in the corner of her eye.

it’s difficult to reconcile the lady in the mirror with the girl she used to be.

laugh lines remind her times weren’t always bad.

new, deeper worry lines grow, form, etch their way through her flesh.

pushing the vague memory of youth further.

with the evanescence of a daffodil, she fades.

merely an echo in time.

Let me attempt to write with my eyes closed.

Feeling each and every stroke.

Take me down letters, prose.

It never feels the same.

There's always a different story.

There's always a different melody.

I hear the music within every sentence.

I'm a muscian.

Tear me down poetry.

Teach me how to be a softy.

Build me up poems.

Teach me how to open.

I always have you on my mind.

You're in everything.

Everything.

Without you as my surrounding

I don't know who I'd be.

I rise and rise.

I close these tired and forsaken eyes.

On our secone date, you gave me flowers. A tiny, beautiful bouquet of daffodils you stole from a yard on the way over. It made my day. Three months later, on our anniversary, you gave me flowers. This time, it was a big, beautiful bouquet you bought from a flower shop. I loved them just the same. Tonight, before I go to bed, I'll look over at the dented Goodwill frame on my bedside table. In it are the dried up daffodils from our second date. I kept them because I knew, in that moment, when you nervously pulled them from your pocket and offered them to me, that these daffodils were going to be one of the first reasons i fell in love with you.

The yellow blooms flow softly in the summer wind;

Their petals drifting in the breeze.

I often take this path

After a long or stressful day.

The daffodils never dim, or

Hide from the world.

The bright whites and yellows,

Whimsical at night,

Cheerful in the day,

Bring happiness to the soul.

Hope for joy and love.

After a long and stressful day

I often take this path.

The petals drifting in the breeze;

The yellow blooms flow slowly in my summer wind.

The grass is always greener

Wherever I am not

Even when I build a bridge

It’s suddenly greener in the other spot

It used to make me whine

With a sneer upon my lips

How I’d leave to see the sun

And always end up seeing an eclipse

When I saw the frowns on the other side

I thought it might’ve been a mirror

Their grass looked so much greener

Yet they held my land much dearer

My grass looks much more yellow

But now I see it’s from the flowers—

Buttercups and daffodils

Blooming yellow at all hours

Why see the sun

Which blinds you in the eyes

When you could see an eclipse

Like a soft halo in the skies

The grass may be green

But it’s the daffodils I treasure

The cheery yellow petals

“Green” beyond measure