Regular

Blue daffodils thrown into the sea net naught on dry land nor waves. Pinch not budding seed, float not want of glee, or pain upon swales and me and my reflection. Think caught in the stinger of the bee, wanton. Lift to the tree. To the pail blue comes the key to the leaf to the flower to the rising. To the fall and to the smirk. To the ocean to the breast and the dirt and the rising. But the light shifts in each moment, free and free to search, we juke and will and save and flee and see and rain and fail and sing and sift and wail and believe.