C. Christine Fair
We met when the daffodils first bloomed.
Along 55th St, I walked that first morning
flush and smelling of you and
knowing you could not be had.
When the blooms turned brown and stems wilted
and as your calls stopped,
I threw myself full force upon this love
like a wild animal wrestling for its freedom.
Ashamed when it, at last, fled angry and frightened.
My doting husband offers to plant those flowers that I adore.
I can’t bare the thought of them in our own garden.
Enjoying the blooms of others, I sometime recall our failed affair.
My husband wonders what I see in their buttery perfection.
This was published in December 2019 in The Sandy Review Review, which is available at: https://sandyriverreview.com/2019/12/24/daffodils-for-armand/