As the world becomes green again,
I look out with some surprise,
for those daffodils; outside my window,
say that they “cannot die.”
“I thought I killed you” I uttered,
in a compounded tone of voice,
my tone; both shocked and confused,
then the bloom boasts “I have no choice!”
“For you see, I am older than you,
meaning that I have been here longer,
though you are made of flesh and bone,
my friend, I am much stronger!”
Then in silent response; I say
“your words do speak the truth,
though; I can use your cousins,
to brew a broth, from leaf to root!”
“Ah my friend” the flower continues,
“I still stand; thus, I do remain,
although you tried to kill me,
I feel that there is no pain.”
My heart sinks; with a little guilt,
but, I must compose myself,
to conceptualise an apology,
though it may be dust upon a shelf.
“Let my eyes pour into you,
the water that you need,
let my tears be a fountain,
every time you bleed,
though I cannot promise this
to those other leaves,
as they fuel my existence,
thus, they are my reprieve!”
The daffodils, sway in the wind,
either in defiance or acceptance,
their shoots, silently taunting me,
so that I can retain my assurance,
that flora and humanity,
has to live; via a certain deal:
that we need to nourish one other,
or else this Globe; we will kill!