It's been done before,
plenty of times,
poets writing verse about daffodils.

But not these daffodils,
not from this place,
where they lay hidden beneath the pine.

Suspended, almost an afterthought,
or accidental at most,
their perfect viewpoint disguised.

I almost didn't see them,
had man not breached this spot,
to spill, encroach, and invade.

And moments pass, keeping
confident yellow secrets
from constantly seeking, never satisfied eyes.

Resting on a whisper,
so hopeful in God's sun,
warmth shading their every effort of un-detection.

Spring tempts me now,
my vision stretched,
falling farther out my window to see...

Four secret daffodils,
standing unsusp...

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