The daffodils arrive in April,
and like good guests
we offer them a place to rest.
We admire their beauty
between sips of glass water,
and compare their light to our own mirrors.
We rest them on all of the counters
like trophies or awards
we will never collect,
and tell ourselves we appreciate
the sacrifice nature gives.
When really,
we will not notice
as their petals wither away,
as they leave the dirty roots of Spring
for some barren grave.
We will not mourn the yellow
they once poured into our eyes
when the winter brings itself home.
It will not be until another April,
when we wake: sleepy-eyed and no longer children,
that we will once again
greet the daffodils in the open air,
saying, “My, how you have grown!”
As though we have never been house guests,
as though we have never seen something so beautiful.