Daffodils. Tied with a stem green bow.
The point of donation. Hospice.
Something to give my beloved.
Something to herald the snow’s retreat to the sea.
I have nothing to say at the presentation.
Always awkward giving flowers without words.
So little boy. Or first date. And here we are
in our sixties reminiscing Woodstock.
Imagine if Mozart had organized such an event in his day.
Or if anyone could have survived such a bliss?
Such is being human. To survive I mean.
Like these flowers won’t if I do not give them to her soon
and place them in a vase.

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copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney

POSTSCRIPT

In the middle of April each year a local hospice raises money by selling daffodils at the cafe where I do most of my writing. This year I donated without taking the flowers, because we had daffodils in the yard.

To me daffodils are the flower that means renewal. They are the first flower I see in spring. Often, they break through the last, lingering snow of winter.

I did not attend Woodstock. It is a mythic event at this point. The subject of documentaries. Dianne was there, though. I extract no glory from her stories on those rare occasions when she talks about the mud, music and chaos.

I thought on the movie Amadeus and its portrayal of Mozart. I fancied Mozart organizing an extravagant fund raiser to benefit a good cause, even though society had not yet evolved to hold fund raising events for the common man in the 1700s.

Love & Light

Kenneth