By Michelle Garren Flye
No other flower matches the daffodil
For merrymaking in spring.
Enjoy its jocund spirit for it lasts
But a momentary fling.
The yellow blossoms nod and sway, but
The moment is gone too soon.
They acquit themselves in splendor
And are gone within a moon.
No time spent gazing at yellow buds
Should be considered wasted.
For the moment ends, and memory remains
Of the golden glory so ill-fated.
If only all acquittals left such a taste?
If only all fates were so well spent.
If only we took the time to be sure
We knew what each one meant.