the kindness of daffodils

from the earth, I have learned this:

soft things survive -

what is gentle lingers,

offering the quiet truth of beauty in fragility

daffodils do not ask for much:

a bit of dirt, a little light, a soft rain -

they weather winter's bite with grace,

buried beneath the bitter soil,

then burst to blooming,

smallish suns against a thawing earth

the kindness of daffodils is this:

they smile where no one asks

and leave the air gentler for it.

bees do not begrudge a living thing a drink of nectar -

economists of quiet benevolence

spinning sun and flower into sweet offerings,

they do not pause to question or conserve.

no tally kept, no debt remembered -

only the soft arithmetic of giving

humming as they scatter their hard-earned gold.

the generosity of bees is this:

to give without glory, labor without praise-

that is how the world is fed.

grass knows there is no shame in yielding,

bending to a buffeting breeze -

tender stalks refuse to break

though the fury of the wind

rages at its roots -

destruction turned to dancing,

it sways with sweetness

until the chaos has passed.

the gentleness of grass is this:

there is an art to staying,

quiet refusal against the hateful storm.

sparrows never rush the sky

nor make demands of the wind -

small persistence sends them where they will.

there is no need to count the days;

the sun's rising is soft and certain

even through the bleakest winter -

the patience of sparrows is this:

the quiet waiting still bears hope

that spring will bloom again.

from the earth, I have learned this:

soft things survive -

not the stone, but the moss,

tender hands to unmake the hardness of a stony world.