Classic Poem

Here you are dead this many a day and still
In your perturbed bones April plots a daffodil.

Out of your flat black hair her fingers twist
Nervous roots, and out of the blue veins in your wrist.

And from your rain-cooled eyes there goes a strength
Along the stalk, and a light striding up the stem's length.

Here you are dead this many a day and still
In your perturbed bones April plots a daffodil.