Daffodils in February
There are daffodils blooming in my yard in February.
It's the earliest I can remember.
I'm having a mental battle between trepidation and joy.
We had an early Spring in March, a few years back,
Where warm weather arrived and stayed through to summer,
As if it had just been sojourning down the street,
Instead of the long, bitter banishment and Winter siege
Nature's insisted on in past years.
There a picture in the back of my mind of a glacier,
Described in reports to be the size of Delaware,
Breaking off of an ice shelf in Antarctica,
Threatening to raise sea levels one-sixteenth of an inch,
So, I'm brooding a bit.
Brooding, even as I raise my face to gauge the warming sun,
Even as I still myself to listen to the birds singing,
Trilling in anticipation of return to remembered days,
Where viridity flourished and multiplied,
To meet and match every sustaining desire.
There's familiar conflict in the compromised air,
Like the gleeful sound of children in the distance at recess,
Muffled, inconsiderately, by the rumble of a jet overhead,
Adding to the cacophony of dire events in the news,
Broadcast over our fragile, but hopeful, lives.
Fitting how the daffodils pushed up through the brush,
Not waiting for my manicure and mulch to emerge and bloom,
Insistent in the face of unprecedented changes in climate,
Almost as a defiance to the threat of the warming globe,
Anxious to affirm their existence.
Short-term, self-preservation wins over trepidation.
I'm lost in the gloriousness of the moment.
It's all too ephemeral to waste.
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