Day 13: Daffodils

She’s sitting near the daffodils, not far
From where we used to run along the stream,
That distant brook, deep in the wood and far
From waking ills.  The sun is warm – we dream,
And faint and luminescent songs are played
By minstrels wearing coins on golden strings,
And we are wearing garments of brocade,
Adorned with silk and garlands.  While she sings,
The daffodils, like rich and brassy clouds,
Are drifting past, and on the forest floor,
The sweet and yellow-scented shade enshrouds
Our sleeping forms.   We can’t recall before,
Nor where we saw the daffodils, nor when,
Nor whether they were truly yellow then.