Narcissus, not daffodils

In the garden, it rains today
the kind of soft rain that falls gently in the daytime, yet storms with thunder
hail and parts of clouds as you sleep at night,
to make darkness even more uneasy-

in the garden, it rains today
on a batch of unnoticed, bright yellow shoots of daffodils
you ask me to pick up herbs from under the pine tree
Hosolban, you say, rosemary- I hear

for today is not a Sunday but the table will be rich with meats
green shoots on its end, from our garden-
I look at the yellow shoots, touch a past life
with a few months spread out, besides lakes- beneath trees

in the garden, it rains today .
the daffodils fold their heads together
bow down to the heavy drop in their sagging shoulders
still fuming with the smell of spring held in breath inside

I must keep these, you say to yourself
as if you can hold spring in your fingers, keep it for a minute
before releasing the flowers after faint realization
there would be no daffodils in July

You call for the Rosemary in my hand,
I turn and ask when you started growing daffodils in the garden
Narjes, Narcissus, you correct me,
not daffodils, Wordsworth invented and ohh, so strange to this soil-
Narjes, narcissus are white, ones I grew when you were away
calling local flowers by their forgeing names.