Taste of Daffodil



So brave, my daffodils; as

chill winds blow across our yard, they

graceful bow and sway in dance

attuned to rhythms buried deep

beneath the soil; endure cold nights,

stand firm in cruel April days to

yellow winter browns and silent

shout their joy at fading icy frosts.


Tasty, too, my daffodils;

sipping from their sturdy cups, I

savor memories of youthful spring;

hand in hand with my beloved under

warm Midwestern skies, dreaming

fields of daffodils, endless, firm, and

bright, outshining all life’s winter woes.


We’ve had our share of golden blooms,

sufficient through the grays and

browns rough painted through our lives;

now autumn years; a mellowed

tang to daffodil; honeyed, holy

wine; floral sign and seal of

life beyond that’s rooted in an

ancient tomb that rolled away the

cold of death and planted in its stead the

promise of another spring when we will

hang our tears upon the stars; forever

dance with saints and daffodils.

in loving memory of my late brother-in-law Fred Bruin who now

forever dances with saints and daffodils


with gratitude for 52 years of life with my husband Merold


6 thoughts on “Taste of Daffodil

  1. So sorry for your loss and at the same time, grateful for your marriage. Now ain’t that like life that both sorrow and gratitude co-exist? By the way, would have given my eye teeth to have come up with this phrase: “we will hang our tears upon the stars”. Thank you.

  2. Sorrow and gratitude co-existing. Reminds me of this from Christian Wiman (and thanks, by the way, for introducing me to him!):
    “Abundance and destitution are two facets of the one face of God, and to be spiritually alive in the fullest sense is to recall one when we are standing squarely in the midst of the other.”

    Christian Wiman, My Bright Abyss

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