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days with a furrowing, aching brow -

the maw in our bucket, dear Liza.

How can this be?

What am I to do?

The slick and thorny, same, insane 

lot of humanity -

fisted against evolving - 

shoves again to the point.

Ready? Aim. Fire!

And… who am I?

Who do my children see that I am?

And my siblings… who are we?

Are we to do nothing?

 Together, a sea of daffodils, snug

in winter’s layered ground, preparing.

Some of us without knowing,

some knowing we are unfurling again

affirming what we believe -

          flight is inevitable.

We see in our sights our practice

to see the other growing, to grow

alongside, to feel the depths where

we have come from, to know time is distance, 

the future of leaf and bud, breeze,

rain and sun, baskets of flowers and greens.