his head protected by a hood
and his demeanour still.
A raven, passing in the night
had dropped a single seed
onto the soil from awesome height
near to a tumbleweed.
The wind near rivers often sways
in its determination,
its harshness on occasion slays
new budding vegetation,
the tumbleweed was blown downstream
by icy waters’ grace
the daffodil had been a dream
and such a pretty face.
The years went by and none are wise
that by the river’s edges
at times two pairs of lonely eyes
are longing to make pledges.
The daffodil remained at home
and wondered in his bosom
if he could write a little poem
subtitled: ‘How You Lose Them.’