LIKE GHOSTLY FINGERS from a life gone, now, one long year, green shoots rise from the soil. Growing daily. Reaching heavenward. Remnants of rebirth after a slow, withering death.
Longing to touch the sky. Fresh. Clean. Pure.
Harbinger of spring in late January. Longing to burst forth and again breathe. But only momentarily.
AT AN OPPORTUNE MOMENT, a grubby little hand plucks the bloom from the stalk and delivers it, tenderly, to his first true love.
He makes coy eye contact.
His Kindergarten teacher is moved. She always is. She always stops short of saying, “Please don’t pick the daffodils.”
© 2009
Church of the Open Road Press
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