The gloriosity of a spring day,
brilliant of sky and returning spirit
is a powerful force, powerful force,
but when it comes to yearly daffodils
the green tips tarrying just above ground
then leaping upward and above the mould
standing stoic above the last March snow
and shaking off the unexpected frost
They burst forth one, two, three then twenty more
and like a smile across a somber day
lighting the sullen rainy afternoon
golden yellows so incandescent their
passing cannot be mourned nor forgotten
as summer lays her green to all the world.
I love the use of repetition when you say “powerful force” and the word gloriosity is, well, glorious…
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