(Note: The following poem came to me on a recent night in which daffodils felt much better as symbols of memory than as themselves. Thanks -- and apologies -- to William Wordsworth.)
I wandered, foggy as a cloud that floats on high o'er vale and hill,
and stumbled blindly through a crowd, in dire need of allergy pill.
Beside the lake and in the trees
were things that made me cough and sneeze.
The waves beside me danced; but they
could make no difference to me.
This poet cannot spend the day
in pollinated company.
I gazed, quite dazed -- but then I thought
what wealth the spring to me hath brought.
For oft, when on my couch I lie,
stuffed-headed and in pensive mood,
I give my poetry a try
amid my coughs and solitude.
Now I must go and take my pills;
I'm allergic to daffodils.
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Filed under: Favorite and less favorite words