It's Still Life

I dreamt of spring—such a strange little telling; blind, blue-eyed flowers straight from the dark brows of doom into a gentle dance. A swaying arabesque—so soft were its April eyes upon the woodland, its shock of white from a blackthorn’s blossom.

There’s always a romp, a bird’s pantomime between branch and bough—a secret song, like some hidden lute of a naiad’s disguise. A fern, or moss, or a glint of gold from daffodils.

And to those clouds of white ruff and windy shoulders, know this, spring’s frolic has just begun.
Here, where dreams turn true—strewn on the lawn—a broken daffodil.