The Jazz of Daffodils

Daffodils know the rhythm They bounce like be-bop, They give it all up For the slow, syncopated, jive notes Of brassy horns – With faces full cheeked, like Gillespie Or pointing downward at the ground, like Miles And you think how they blow, Man! How they blow! Daffodils cannot tell you what spring is about, You have to feel it, when you listen to them. You have to feel them slide and glide; You have to know the fronds Are like outstretched palms asking You to slap them five – “Can you dig it?” they whisper to you, With a sawdust voice; The xylem of each stem Transports the smoothest water like smoky Kentucky bourbon. Daffodils hold and bend and stretch Each note, like memory or pain. Daffodils cannot tell you what spring is about, You have to feel it, when you listen to them. Then, after all this talk about rebirth is done, Go grab a hyacinth And hold her tight, real tight – And close your eyes and just sway To the Daffodil’s music Because, man, the only song he’s playing Is that change is just another kind of Death. M C Biegner 5/6/2005