My daffodils could not be made to bloom
Although the warmth of April filled the air.
Gay visions of my garden turned to gloom,
Injecting once glad thoughts with deep despair.
Caressing breezes felt like wind's chill blast,
For I could not from ground my flowers coax.
An anguished pall upon my world was cast
In which I felt spring's promise but a hoax.
Reduced to tears, I wept where life should be,
Yet mustered in my grief one final prayer,
Determined that my garden grow with glee,
Unhindered by all doubts my soul might bear.
Surrendering incertitude to trust,
These blossoms bloomed neath coats of fairy dust.