the bluest of november days
those bulbs I planted in november
keep quiet underground
buried like bad memories
dying to stretch to the surface
by the time january arrives
all is but forgotten
wiped away by a clean
sheet of freshly fallen snow
march came roaring in like a lion
and departed like a lamb
the jet stream passing favors
to the earliest of risers
on may day the flowers opened
bright and smartly sassy
I smiled but then remembered
about the bulbs
and sadly I was taken back
all the way to november
april two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 
I will never look a daffodil in their face without recalling dread of fall.
both daffodils and tulips coming in nicely this spring…probably wise not to look back