Yesterday, planting daffodils and tulips

in the new bed I made,

lining tree trunks

from the pine and spruce

that once grew taller than my house,

old warriors, now fallen

so that I could have more sunlight

in my life,

more color all around me,

taking what I need,

to create the world

I want to live and die in.

And kneeling there--

dirt beneath my nails

from giving each bulb

the earth and space it needs

to blossom in the spring

and live with me, a warrior, too,

fighting sadness with these flowers,

knowing that when winter goes

and spring crawls back across the sky,

my eyes will look out with delight

at what was never there before.

And as I plant,

kneeling there

I look up at the sun

as if in prayer

and close my eyes

and in the darkness of my mind

I see the first of many seeds

wet with morning dew

growing in the warmth

of ancient sunlight

among the stones

somewhere

and in that barren place,

seeds lifted by the wind

sweep across the land

over centuries of storms and wars

to where I am today,

kneeling, looking at the ancient sun

then at my hands,

planting another daffodil.