I bring home two bunches
of the unbloomed things,
slender green pencils with
just a hint of what’s to come

at the tips, their shrouded
crayon color that will, in
a day or two, fluff into hot
yellow skirts of daffodils,

trumpeting spring through
perky floral bullhorns. I do
this every year—squeak in
delight when they appear in

rubber-banded clusters. I may
have gone to the store for cheese
sticks and yogurt, avocado and
a turkey-and-apple sandwich,

but I cannot ignore the whisper
of a full bin of daffodils fixin’
to bloom, $2.99 a bunch.
Take ‘em home, add water

to a favorite vase, plop ’em
in and stand back. I swear
they unfurl in slow motion,
ruffle by ruffle as I watch,

a time lapse of blossoms
blossoming on the dining
room table, a forgotten
miracle I didn’t realize

I was waiting for.