The Daffodil and the Breeze

Said the Daffodil

to the Breeze,

“Pick my petals off like plums,

strip and peel

my stem with zeal;

uproot me,

boot me toward the sun.”

Said the breeze,

“My darling Daffodil,

I’d rather treat you fondly,

with caresses,

and the scent of fresh birds’ nests

to greet you warmly.”

“Are you meaning,”

she, the flower, replied,

“I’m only what I’m wearing?

That these fragile bones,

edible,

leave me worthless in the tearing?

Is there nothing left of me

when once you’ve plundered all my innards?

Am I wasted, am I useless in a use

that’s not aesthetics?”

“Daffodil,” replied he, warily,

“You certainly are pretty,

but of course, you know,

I also find your wit to be quite witty,

and the tales you tell are well-worth spells

of sitting, quiet, listening,

and the thoughts you think remind me

of the thoughts I’m used to thinking,

so of course there is much more to you,

but still,

what would remain,

if I rendered you dismembered?

Would your thoughts still be made plain,

if I gathered you from earth

and flung you, dripping, toward the heavens?

If I ripped and tore and weathered you,

and flung and cut and severed?

Darling,

sit quite still and sing for us,

and we’ll all be enamoured.

Stay tight in your place

and my embrace will block

thoughtless endeavors.”

But she wailed,

“How can I stay?

How can I simply be a marker,

for the ones who tread over these hills

to know they’re halfway farther?

I wish for more!

I wish to fly!

To see what comes hereafter!

In the great unknown,

where might my soul end up,

once I am slaughtered?

See, I’ve seen what can be done in this,

my current tethered state,

please undo me,

slice and ruin me,

now, toss me toward the gate!”

“Nay, I musn’t!”

said the breeze with many a

sad and wheezy bluster,

“Nay, I shan’t!”

he spun around the Daffodil

in all his fluster,

“Nay, nay, never!”

and he broke his path

and raced up toward the treetops,

til the sight of her alarmed him

and he retraced all his first steps,

and he roared toward the hillside,

but then back down to the orchard,

and he skimmed the foamy stream

and doubled back into

the barnyard.

“See, I’ve angered him!”

the Daffodil sat,

leaves folded up contently,

out in front of her as, wretched,

he continued,

and presently

blew too hard upon the very hill

where Daffodil was molded,

and she sighed as all her parts

became unraveled and unfolded,

and she gasped as she escaped the soil

and leaves and petals vanished,

and her stem was split right down the front

and landed near a radish,

(which turned,

and looking down its nose, said,

“Now you will be garnish.”)

“Oh, oh!” cried the breeze,

“Oh no!” for he

had turned into a wind,

and rustling in all the branches,

the birds’ nagging did commence,

and scratching over all the grasses,

fastening skirts onto legs,

he flurried noisily through courtyards,

ruffling and sweeping,

begged,

“Oh, Daffodil!

You made me kill you,

and you turned my pace much faster,

you are ruined, I am ruined,

you creator of disaster!

Why didn’t I mind my business!

Why didn’t I drift away?

Now I’m on a path to

purchase wrath,

as soon’s I hit the sea!

Daffodil,

you wicked flower!

Was this planned and where’ve you gone?”

And he wandered thus forever,

til forever ended,

gone.

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