Bud blooming into brilliance

with a scream

from the overpassing jet – Mother

Nature the womb

from which such vibrant yellow

is birthed, again and again –

it stretches towards the light

in silence.

The nature poet ’twas who wrote

of this flower,

of its golden crowding habit

and breeze-blown dancing sway,

yet individual each petal

of seeming sunlight gathering is –

a rainbow of yellows and oranges

and golds to be admired, or plucked, held

in hands eager to bring in the Spring

from out of doors to the table,

very like the seasonal

slaughtered lamb.

The daffodils are here.