When spring comes, the daffodil blooms.
Dark days of windchill and sleet cannot dissuade her;
determined, she sprouts up through ground hard as hate.
Though spring seems so uncertain one can barely dream of it, she harbingers
Up through the snow, she forces herself,
holding her fragile blossom valiantly aloft in the freezing breezes.
She's a light when the deep night seems never-ending.
She sustains hope and cheer even as the sky pelts her with its blistering tears.
Crushed by winter's weight, she collects
sparkling bits of frostbite
and freezing rain, wearing it like a diamondy wreath around her tired head.
Even in the barren, twilit days, her sweet green song of blackberry winter
and her heart—light and graceful as a summer swallowtail—flutters far above
the lowering clouds.
Snow-bound, she is still a daffodil, beloved cousin of the sun,
shining when even that daystar fears to face the storm.
Just as you, my dear, with your bright golden gladness,
have always been a lovely,
—Monica Rose Kiesel