POEM: The Jazz of Daffodils

Daffodils know the rhythm
They bounce like be-bop,
They give it all up
For the slow, syncopated, jive notes
Of brassy horns –
With faces full cheeked, like Gillespie
Or pointing downward at the ground, like Miles
And you think how they blow,
Man! How they blow!

Daffodils cannot tell you what spring is about,
You have to feel it, when you listen to them.

You have to feel the slide and glide;
You have to know the fronds
Are like outstretched palms asking
You to slap them five –
“Can you dig it?” they whisper to you,
With a sawdust voice;
The xylem of each stem
Transports the smoothest water like smoky
Kentucky bourbon.

Daffodils hold and bend and stretch
Each note, like memory or pain.

Daffodils cannot tell you what spring is about,
You have to feel it, when you listen to them.

Then, after all this talk about rebirth is done,
Go grab a hyacinth
And hold her tight, real tight –
And close your eyes and just sway
To the Daffodil’s music
Because, man, the only song he’s playing
Is that change is just another kind of Death.

M C Biegner
5/6/2005