The snow comes softly,
settles onto the long necked daffodils.
They know how to rise above the chill,
stand as one, though they are muffled
by the cold batting stuffed into their mouths.
They know the time to sing
their golden throated songs,
of reaching for the sky,
is when the earth is hard.
It is true their numbing ache
depends on silence and resignation -
which are the tunes of death.
Together they won't bend
to this white and angry winter,
when it is so easy
to forget about
their incandescent light.
Jude Neale
