At last the sun shines on the gray mounds of snow,
streams of snowmelt stripe the road a darker gray.
Ah, the daffodils.
Beneath that yellow dazzle, on top of last year’s decay
a snail the color of fingernails, its whorl piled like a woman’s hair
and tentacles glisten and shyly wave
above a mottled weave—its shadow
a dominate motif dragging along behind,
just part of the design.
She doesn’t have a word
and sounds a trumpet blast—
Hear ye, hear ye.
And isn’t that the same as calling it by name?
Catherine Grossman is the recipient of a Golden Key Graduate Scholar Award, a graduate from Warren Wilson Program for Writers, and she teaches English at the Community College in West Lafayette, IN. Her poems and essays can be found in Lilith, Mothering, Tipton Review, Flying Island, Moon Journal, Apricity, Lit Pub, taped to the wall of her study, and other places.
Daffodils illustration by C.B. Auder.