All around me in my world of the North Georgia mountains, I see daffodils blooming along roadsides and in yards. Some of those roadside daffodils were planted by an unknown gardener in a homeplace years ago. Many of my memories of childhood include daffodils, whether at my grandmother’s house or at our old homeplace in the mountain. I remember picking a few to put on my grandfather’s grave. To me, daffodils personify spring and resurrection. I don’t believe in picking daffodils, or flowers in my yard, only to throw them into the trashcan when the flowers are spent. I have reverence for them.
To a Daffodil
blooming among your sisters
along the roadside, in years past
a trail of dirt and dust,
now a black ribbon of asphalt.
Once upon a time
in an old homeplace,
someone dreamed of what
you would become.
You were not like the others
bearing single trumpets,
growing farther down the hill.
Your stem carried a flower
dressed in layers of petals
so heavy the stem bent.
You wept as your face lay
in the damp soil near a ditch,
your hopes for spring dashed.
I could not leave you there.
Your fate was worse than death.
So I plucked you from your sisters,
your destiny found in the crystal vase
on the counter by my kitchen sink.
I loved the soft scent of you.
Your elegance and grace
brought life to a dull world
of kitchen grease and dreams
swirling down a drain.
You lifted yourself
in golden yellow glory.
You raised your face
as far as you could
before your soft petals
turned crisp and opaque
like tissue paper.
It was time for you to go—
not into the trash bin,
not into the weeds.
I lifted you from silky water,
carried you in my hand
like a royal scepter,
and plodded along in sadness
until I reached your home
by the roadside—
near a roll of unused black cable
and a telephone pole
that smells of creosote.
Beauty in spite of circumstance.
Sleep among your sisters now
until their time comes to an end.
Your life was ephemeral
as is true for all of us.
Carroll S. Taylor