Green Thumbs

The daffodils emerge in emerald clumps
of blunted spears, as though some underground
republic's Senate gathered, raising thumbs
in judgment. Maybe Proserpina, crowned
but prisoner of her husband's taste for gloom
was freed with such a gesture. Or were these
the daffodils that Wordsworth saw in bloom,
"fluttering and dancing in the breeze."
These are not flowers; only stubborn shoots
that brave late snow and unexpected frost
and promise in the tongue of saintly mutes
the springtime dance of Wordsworth's golden host.
These are the Senators who judge between
winter and spring, with upturned thumbs of green.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside