A friend of mine, brilliant writer and lovely poet, Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni, read this to a few of us several years ago. We were in a small writing group together and it was the most sweet time, truly. Someone told me recently that daffodils are the messenger of spring and so, I thought of Amy and this poem. It’s a pleasure to share it with you today. You can find more of her writing here:
Old Man Dreams on the Daffodil Tour
“I’d love a little house like that someday.
Maybe a nice used Ford,
or a Cadillac, if I could get a deal.”
I glance at his dream as we motor by.
Between the riverside cottages, yellow peeks from tender green
and young leaves unfold on slender stems.
He consumes this visual feast like a starving man
seated at a table for the first time in months.
“That would be nice,” I say.
“Yep,” he says rubbing his gnarled knuckles, “It’d be just right.”
In his one room apartment at the residential community
he keeps his door locked, shades drawn, TV blaring.
Every visit I knock and shout so he will hear me
and worry how we bother the neighbors.
His walker scrapes on the linoleum;
I silently beg him not to hurry.
The door swings wide.
Hulking and hunched, a suspect first glance turns to recognition,
“Hey, honey,” he chuckles. “Come in. Can you stay long?”
It’s not what he planned, but he tries to live above it,
as if there’s another future,
with a house and a car,
as if he’s only visiting.
It’s ugly, this business of getting old.
But today it’s sunny. We’re driving,
in search of a glimpse of spring.
I see a bright spot.
“Look, Gramps,” I say, slowing the car and pointing
to a flood of yellow in a side yard.
“Woa,” he whistles and taps the window.
His eyes twinkle.
“Sweetie,” he says, “it doesn’t get much better than that.”