A Chronos~w form poem for the Writer's Cramp about daffodils and NYC
Our olde wylde mother loves daffodils, white-and-gold
petalled oracles, most high theology dropped to earth,
new life and resurrection from disaster.
The cool, wet, green fragrance takes us by surprise,
the fruit of prayer without ceasing.
Written for: "The Writer's Cramp"
in the Chronos~w form: "Chronos~w"