Harbinger
Made it through Winter’s darkest hour.
Pushed through the leaves,
now defiant with flower.
One tiny bunch,
waving wild in a clearing.
No home-site hunch,
to explain their appearing.
Deposited maybe
by hundred year year flood.
Snatched off the ridge top,
dropped plop in the mud.
Chiffon interruption
in the colorfew scheme.
Bright alarm wakes all
from crushed-down brown dreams.
Phone-like bell
pricks our malaise.
Harbinger swings,
brings warm yellow days.
Calls back the robin,
the fickle whippoorwill.
Returning loyally,
a butter-stained doily,
our undying dear daffodil.