A nothing
we were, are, shall
remain, flowering:
the nothing-, the
no one's rose.
Taking my fingers
from my pocket, the
morning becomes a daffodil.
Schoolgirls in front of me
stride, strive to collect,
mist spills from their breath.
I throw them some coins
and hear it tinkling in their bag
and like an arrow
my poem forms a stem.
And then I continue
my walk, thinking:
another day, another day;
and I am flowering briefly -
my mind coloured like a daffodil;
and soon my poem forms
with the softest yellow;
it emblazons you.