Daffodils appear in jazzy faction. Their music caused the Pleiades to dance, or at least lush rain with Dionysian impact. Or just the yellow gust of immensity in the moment. Whatever clings to savor, let it reign. Daffodils strike their pose in a perfect time and meeting. No gossip, just imbuing. They make hay in the daunting time of time undaunted. Just look to the trees. And after the blossoms wear away, a new flower forms in the hidden bulb. Roots pull impressions and risings from the earth. All daffodil parts are there. Music exists as an internal hum, color becomes the breath of constancy. The new being grows in all its parts, as time will say in natural vocatives. The gleaming state fosters latent resolve. Merrie music seeds the day. And love resides in just that sweep, again the look, the eye, the sounding. Thus and therefore gangs the flower, the very flower of our day.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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