We Sense It Had To Do With Blue

A chromosomally unprecedented daffodil

burst through the earth this early Spring
to bring the visual suggestion of a poet –
with an azure aperture through its corona –

an inexplicability which clearly warranted
inspection. To gaze into the blue amid
the blazing yellow hue surrounding the intensity
of some unfathomed predilection in the shaped

projection of the artist’s face did not
extend itself, or lend itself, or in the least
propend itself into a revelation. Its preternatural
ribonucleic mix appeared quixotically

to coalesce into some ever-fresh determination
to achieve an aim for which we could not then
and cannot now produce a name. And yet,
when, with a gulp, we watched it rot abruptly

into pulp, we felt a residue of strangely
clinging shame – as if we’d missed a crucial
floral moral. We sense it had to do with blue.
It may, as well, have had to do with you.







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