On the blooming daffodils of April,
rain chaotically falls,
each drop, hesitantly anticipated
like the breath of a dying man,
failing hearts identify,
with the disorganization of spring,
what luxury:
a summer that understands sun,
a chat with one’s forsaken father ,
a permanent autumn,
a memory of childhood dreams,
a winter that only snows for show,
a future without impending death.

-L.J. Lenehan-
daffodils

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