The Daffodils

The Daffodils

The daffodils push through the soil together,

yellow finding its way out of the dark.

They rise without ceremony or doubt,

guided by a timing older than thought.

Their stems are firm, though the air is cold,

faces lifted toward whatever light arrives.

They do not choose the weather they meet,

they open anyway, as flowers do.

Each bloom carries its own small difference,

some wider, some tighter, none competing.

Colour spreads quietly across the ground,

a shared brightness rather than a claim.

Rain touches them without apology,

wind moves through and keeps on going.

The flowers accept what comes and stays open,

trusting the ground that brought them here.

They stand close, unafraid of each other,

roots tangled somewhere below the surface.

Nothing about them needs to stand alone,

they are stronger in their nearness.

The yellow holds through passing hours,

steady against the darker earth beneath.

No bloom asks how long it will last,

it exists fully inside the moment it has.

When evening pulls the light away,

they remain, quieter, still upright.

Spring does not announce itself loudly,

it simply shows up, and keeps going.