Closing my eyes is a promise, a little trust
which I plant on your lips like a daffodil in March.
Caution to the wind, it’s going to unfurl
every swish and swank of yellow, bite the air
with pollened pistils and snap. Too bad that cold wind’s coming,
clapping its hands over the blooms and bruising
their squinch-eyed faces.
They are green-stemmed.
With a sharp shock stalk sound they fall
when Mother brings the muddy scissors or Mary
steps on them with her boot and the heel goes