How many springs have passed since she watched the first green shoots break from the
earth, the bright blooms unfurl?
The year they raised the little cabin she planted a handful of the precious bulbs, a neighbor's sharing. Pushing aside the fallen, crisping leaves, she buried the papery bulbs in sure and certain hope of making a home, a family, of putting her mark on the
Here I am and here I
mean to stay each buried bulb declared.
She cut switches of forsythia, yellow bells, they called
them, from a neighbor’s plantings, boxwood too, and rooted them all in the damp earth beside the spring.
In a few years, heavy with her second child, she set out
the little plants they'd made, all around the cabin.
Her children dug hidey holes beneath those boxwood, and brought
her fistfuls of the daffodils that multiplied and spread with every spring.
Like her own
family . . . they moved off, most of them, in later years.
But they still returned, sometimes with the
daffodils and sometimes for Decoration Day, when the piney flowers
lifted their blowsy heads.
Long gone, that woman, those children, that cabin; but the daffodils return each year, and her mark remains.
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