On Tasting Daffodils


by Catherine Farmer

Purple-stained fingers carried

Hard-won blossoms of the season's turning.

Sun-bright faces bowed in silent homage

To the bloody journey home,

Her valiant march through berry-laden brambles,

Hands ravaged by the bush's arsenal of thorns,

Pausing only long enough to lick away

A single scarlet drop, its iron tang

Merging with the fruited breeze to birth

A singular new flavor that

Revisited her tongue in later years

Whenever she encountered daffodils.