Aren’t we all Wordsworth’s
wandering clouds?
Lone lives. Wonderers
longing
permanence.
Anywhere.
On another’s voicemail,
in anyone’s blog,
at the end of someone’s lens
aimed at a BMW in the lot.

But then the daffodils.

No longer in crowds
caught by breeze,
seven from ten thousand,
picked by you.
Every stem once an each. Each
united in your hand today
invites us to believe
something
here and now
might last hereafter.