Dripping daffodils

What are daffodils? How do they look, or where do they grow? and how do they smell? This poem explores the depths and breaths of what a daffodil is to the poet.

Dripping daffodils

What’s a daffodil?
A blue flower, I imagined.
Or a pink one,
with drooping petals and
a stigma in purple.

I googled it.

It’s a gorgeous yellow,
with whites in its anther.
Growing clustered
like corsage on a wrist.

But I like my daffodils better.
In slumping petals of pinks and purples,
clumped with navy blue stamens,
and dark jade sepals;  
fused together by long grassy stalks,

swaying gently to the songs of the wind,
creeping up on tree trunks at the foot of a hill.
Housing bees and birds that flit and flutter,
My daffodils droop and drip love and nectar.

How do they smell?
Is it a stench or a scent?

I googled it.

Some say it stinks and induces a sneeze;
others say it has a delicious fragrance,
that dances in the breeze.

I fantasise a mix of lilies and jasmines,
with a hint of rose and magnolia;
wafting in the air, making me heady.
It’s like inhaling well-crafted poetry
on a balmy afternoon sitting
under a thick brown tree.

To rejoice the actual redolence,
guess I’ll need some patience.

Cover photo by Anton Darius on Unsplash