Whispered Wanderings

~after Edgar Allan Poe, from “Alone”

The mystery which binds me still
to things I used to think were true
is not unlike a daffodil,
that gives me hope and helps refill
my spirit when clouds fill my view.

And blooming bright upon a hill
above this quiet avenue
the yellow flower poses still –
gives not a thought to what she will
become when life’s no longer new.

She doesn’t feel the coming chill
with summer sun to dry the dew –
she dances for the whippoorwill,
and wishes she could learn his skill
to sing unto her skies of blue.

klm
2/5/25