08 Apr Poem for a Friday: In April, Age 3

IN APRIL, AGE 3

The daffodils
are sad
? he asks. Mommy?
The daffodils are sick? He kneels
beside them in our tiny mud-green patch
of garden and with one finger lifts
each head in turn, tilting
every face—trumpet’s blare,
heavy cup-and-saucer—up
to meet the sun. There, he says. I fixed
them. He stands up. He brushes
the dirt from his hands. He says
They’re not sad anymore.
Already the daffodils’ slim necks
are bent again. Already, drunk
on the first light of spring,
they’re spilling it
over the ground.

4 Comments
  • Kate Sullivan
    Posted at 13:02h, 08 April Reply

    Beautiful! Thank you

    • Jennifer Shattuck
      Posted at 14:30h, 08 April Reply

      Thank you, Kate!

  • Tom Daley
    Posted at 13:35h, 08 April Reply

    Exquisite–simple yet very skillfully articulated Lovely piece. Thanks, Jen!

    • Jennifer Shattuck
      Posted at 14:30h, 08 April Reply

      Thank you so much, Tom!

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