The sun broke through in February
And brought both joy and sorrow,
For though the air was mild today,
I feared the frost tomorrow.
A spell this warm would raise the heads
Of daffodil and buttercup.
Drenched in sunlight, bathed in dew.
They'd figure winter's time was up.
Sure enough, I spied green shoots
Emerging from the earth,
Poking through the garden beds,
Arms upraised in mirth.
With trowel and flowerpot in hand
I hurried to the rescue,
Knowing I couldn't save them all,
Resolved to save a few.
They're up here in my office now,
Sitting on the sills,
Looking a mite homesick
Four buttercups, three daffodils.
Outside it's cloudy, cold and wet,
Though not yet back to freezing.
The daffs are waiting at the window
They'd find some sunlight pleasing.
Winged yellow faces fully spread
To catch each golden ray,
They're gazing toward the western sky,
Where their friend set yesterday.
Little do they know that here,
Upon a silken cloth,
Behind them on my top bookshelf,
Resides Lord Jagannatha.
Daffodils and buttercups
Are each a part of Him
Infinitesimal spirit souls,
As are trees and birds and men.
He is the father of us all,
The friend forever well-wishing.
The sun and moon are His two eyes.
He is the sun-rapt spring.
So I've advised my daffodils
That while their sun is hiding,
They ought to turn around and see
Lord Jagannatha presiding.
But there they sit beside the glass,
Their faces turned away,
Their longing eyes upon the clouds
That dim the light of day.
Although I know they hear me well,
The sun still has their heart;
For while quite pretty, young, and gay,
They really aren't so smart.