I wrote this poem the winter after my mother died. The poem, along with the daffodils, brought me hope. I hope (and they) offer you hope as well.
Daffodills
I was conceived in the season of daffodils.
My cells first knit in my mother’s womb
as the yellow buds burst from the ground.
A sign of hope for the future.
Every spring, I watched their sunny heads
waving by the brick wall around my home.
Promising life, growth, and goodness.
Bringing a smile to my tender eyes.
Even as I left home, the daffodils remained;
Welcoming me home for Easter each year.
Reminding me the buried bulb comes alive.
That sunshine rises from dirt-strewn graves.
The daffodils bloomed as my mother faded.
I picked their fragile stems to cheer her.
It turned out their gaze was for me –
to hold my eyes as her life left mine.
Now I lie alone.
Under the earth in quiet darkness.
In a new kind of womb.
Wondering what will emerge come spring.