Speaking in Daffodil Tongue

I hear you echo now

as leaves fall
and red birds
seem much more distant.

You could have stayed
until dawn broke us both
and light upon petals
no longer made me melt.

Will you have time for me
when rivers flow slower
and stars seem less brilliant

in the mist
of so much heaven?

I never longed for chill;
blankets covering
nature’s precious prairie muse.

I am still speaking in daffodil tongue
skipping in syllables

that grow in sun.

Hearts grow fonder
when white trains drag earth
through Saturdays in June;
winds carrying shared love
from tossed tresses
of a runaway bride’s bouquet.

I still remember that first picnic
writing poetry;

between stanzas

behind that old oak tree.

There just aren’t enough adjectives
to make me love winter more.



3 thoughts on “Speaking in Daffodil Tongue

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