in nearly every kind of dirt
(of which you knew your unfair share)
and I suppose it was the daffodil in you
that captivates us so
the bulb you dug out of the earth
and devoured as a child
to quiet your empty belly
when the Nazis ate
your carrots and your cows
leaving you to die
but you did not
would not
and that daffodil grew within you
infusing you with its life
teaching you to be
delicate yet sturdy
effervescent yet grounded
and that style and substance
can coexist in one form
until like those scrappy happy flowers
you rose up time and again
even after the most desolate winters
to bring joy to weary workers
trapped in the traffic of their lives
who stop at a light long enough
to gaze out the window
and smile at the sight
of something truly transcendent
the bright beauty of you
dancing in a green field
swaying with a breeze named Fred
on a sunny spring afternoon
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