the daffodils are blooming at cherokee park

another poem I wrote with photos to go along

the daffodils are blooming at Cherokee park

I won’t see the ones I planted bulbs for

last fall, in my yard —

the label read they were a mixed variety

all sorts of shades of yellows and oranges,

even some pink.

I bought them, thinking:

it would be quite nice to see

the color pink on a daffodil

I would’ve liked to see them grow:

first sprouting as green shoots from grey-brown earth,

then unfolding into electric blooms of yellow

(and possibly a bit of pink)

I’d have liked to gather them . . .

a satisfying “snip” as I pinched their stems

I’d place them neatly in a vase,

all for sheer pleasure, and then

I’d spread sunshine happy bouquets

amongst friends & neighbors

I’d have really liked that

but I must admit:

I like better not to be there at all.

I was one text away from asking her

“Can I plant some bulbs in your yard?

. . . just in case,” But I didn’t.

As if ignoring the nagging feeling in my gut

would somehow let me see them bloom,

come springtime.

Now I’m crying,

she asks if it’s just about the daffodils

I pause for a beat,

my chest light as I say,

“yeah, it’s just about the daffodils.”

I do mean it,

isn’t a daffodil worth crying over?

certainly there are more weighty things to cry about

only I shed most my tears already

some, last fall, while I was planting those bulbs

I remember I hoped

the neighbors wouldn’t see me

as I wiped away tears

with the back of my dirt-covered hand

cheeks stained muddy, mixing grief

with the dirt from my garden

Now,

I’ll sit here in the park,

soaking in the beauty,

of the ones I didn’t plant

the thrill of this new life

settling in.

Maybe it’s silly —

but isn’t such beauty

worthy of my tears?

a daffodil,

all on her own,

a simple spring flower.

isn’t she worth

writing a poem about?

While my tears don’t fall for you

not anymore —

I’ll start to think flowers

are worth crying for

The daffodils are blooming at Cherokee park