Daffodils of the Living Voice

At dawn, the meadow learns to breathe,
soft light unfolding like a held note released.
Daffodils rise—
not merely flowers,
but golden microphones rooted in earth,
waiting for truth.

Each stem stands tuned to morning,
each cup shaped to carry sound.
From their centers, voices lift—
translucent waves of breath and meaning,
notes made visible,
music learning how to be seen.

The air is alive with listening.
Sound does not shout here;
it glows.
It travels gently,
as if afraid to bruise the silence
that protects it.

Around the field, poets gather unseen—
silhouettes of intention,
forms without faces,
because the voice matters more than the name.
They do not cast shadows;
they shape light.

Their words rise slowly,
carried by tone,
guided by pause.
Every breath becomes a bridge,
every syllable a step
toward another heart.

Above them, the sky is pale blue,
a page that refuses to stay empty.
Lines of poetry drift like clouds,
learning to sing as they move.
Meaning floats, rearranges,
finds new listeners.

This is the community of vocal poets:
those who trust sound over ink,
presence over permanence.
They know a poem can live
inside an ear,
inside a moment,
inside a trembling pause.

Some voices arrive cracked with doubt,
others bright with certainty.
The daffodils accept all frequencies.
They teach a quiet truth—
clarity is not loudness,
and strength does not rush.

When the wind passes,
it edits nothing,
yet improves everything.
The flowers sway,
keeping rhythm with the world.
The poets learn:
a poem must move
to remain alive.

As the sun climbs,
the meadow becomes a chorus.
No single voice dominates.
Hope multiplies by harmony.
Yellow spreads—
not as color alone,
but as conviction.

And when the day advances,
the voices do not fade.
They settle into memory,
ready to rise again.
For wherever a poet speaks with care,
wherever sound carries truth,
a daffodil will turn its face to light
and sing.