Following the discussion inspired by Lucy Kempton's daffodil montage, I have been thinking about the poem and the flowers that inspired it. Tall Girl says by way of comment that the consensus of her writers' group is that you can't put a daffodil in a poem at all nowadays. I know what they mean but all the same I say to myself:
Buds probe the air, hungry as birds beaks,
Or poised, the shape of fish, in green shadow,
To shoot after prey in a brazen flash;
Trumpets that gape, bold, frilled with snarls,
That Satchmo himself might learn to blow;
Mad rhythms of dancing, empty heads;
The rumble and tap of their sequestered feet
Underground, where they, from sand and rock,
Draw strength to scream like Dionysus' girls,
In this violent, unstoppable, cruel time.
A loaf is left too long to prove. The baked loaf looks alright, but reveals a gaping hollow under the crust when the first slice is taken, like the empty loft of a house.
For a few minutes big snow flakes fall, but not for long. I go to the front door to photograph them falling against the hedge and bay tree. But they melt away on contact with the ground. "Où sont les neiges d'antan!"