There are those who bloom like daffodils. They wait beneath the soil

Until eventually, in springtime, they burst out with little toil.

They’re bright like evening sunsets, yellow and orange and green, 

But in winter, when you need them, they’re never to be seen.


There are those who bloom like roses, crawling out from ragged bush. 

They encompass almost everything. Smell me! See me blush!

They’re survivors, you can see that, with their brambles and their thorns.

They’ll scratch you when you pick them, steer clear and be warned!


There are those who bloom like daisies. You cannot keep them shorn,

And if you try, God help you! They’ll spring up by the morn!

Or look, the sweet hydrangea! A bouquet of its own. 

And now no more attention is the little daisy shown.


Me? I bloom like something else, at midnight when stars burn. 

Before you judge, please let me speak. Toadstools never get their turn. 

I’m there when morning light breaks through. Rain, hail, snow, or shine. 

I am not a petalled goddess, but this place, this life, is mine.


Someday when you need me, you’ll see me waiting there,

Under frost in moonlight or thriving in warm air. 

The fairies, they once loved me. They danced upon my stage.

I meet them in my dreams now. Their souls did never age. 


I bloom like a mushroom. Button, death-cap, lion’s mane.

One day, when life is dreary, I’ll endure through all the pain.


By Shauna O’ Connor

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