History of Sorts

“The Daffodil Knows”

Beneath the frost where silence sleeps,
Where time runs thin and memory weeps,
A bulb lies still in winter’s grave,
Yet dreams of sun and all it gave.

I stood alone where you once stood,
The air still held your quiet good—
No voice, no breath, just earth and stone,
And daffodils you might have known.

Grief is not loud, it barely speaks,
It hides in hours and hollow weeks.
But then the thaw, a subtle sign,
A stem breaks through, a thread, a line—

The daffodil, gold-faced and brave,
Rises from its yearly grave.
It does not ask where you have gone,
It only leans into the dawn.

Is this not proof? This bloom, this flame,
That what falls cold will rise again?
That death, though dark, is not the end,
But just the path where roots descend.

I do not know what waits beyond,
What realms lie past this mortal bond—
But every spring, without a sound,
You meet me on this thawing ground.

In petals bright, your soul appears,
Not gone, just gone from counting years.
And I, with tears not quite so wide,
Feel you bloom, still by my side.

So let the cold and sorrow stay—
The daffodil will find its way.
And I will wait through every chill
To see your face in splendour still.