My daffodils

My children were like Plath's daffodils
Yellow ruffled skirts of color
set down in a dark field.
Mixed blessings.
For sixteen years
I nutured them,
raised them,
dug them from the ground,
then sold them
as payment for a new life.
Turned them loose
to bring their sunny pleasure
to someone else's garden.

Except for the last bulb.

The youngest one I watered and fed
and protected from the elements.
Exposed to foreign soil
unlike our dry baked clay
And propagated for a new strain,
a prized and valued bloom.

Until the Red Gremlin
mowed it down
plowed it under
and weakened its golden throat.

I plucked it fromthe earth.
Repotted it beneath our tree
in a protective womb
of moist humus
and waited.

Aren't daffodils an everlasting.....
The first sign of spring?
Eleven months and still I watch
for tender green sprouts.
My gardening skills are all played out
Now I wait for a better gardener
And his plan.