Smooth fingers touch my papery skin,
place me in soil
in a shallow hole, cover me.
Loam and grains soothe,
and trickling water comforts.
I rest; seem dead, but only sleep.
I wait.
And all at once, a tingle urges
slender threads to slip from me,
roots to feed me,
roots to anchor me.
And then my head surges
and a shoot, green as a frog,
forces up through earth,
reaches the light.
I shall burst with brilliance,
a blazing trumpet of daffodil
blaring at the sun.
When my yellow fades
to crisp parchment, I shall stay
in my secret cavern, know worm and beetle,
feel my strength return
for next year’s flowering.
Alison Chisholm