we don’t choose our parents, 
but if mother and I were a river, where did we fork, 
             why did our river divide?    
 
             She told me often enough for me to know, 
Not this life, the next is where it ends.  
             But I never believed.  
 
             What if I could ford between us even now.  
Might I find her yet, still holding our place  
             in the dark, 
 
             and even the cold that made her 
who she was. What could I know of faith's 
             exact, eternal hurt. 
 
             I never believed so her suffering was long.  
I ask because I walk the banks of a river now, 
             think of her often. 
 
             I ask because today on each bank daffodils 
are beginning to bloom. She told me they must 
             have cold and dark 
 
            in order to flower, that it does no good to plant 
a daffodil too soon. They should first endure  
            a prolonged cold wintering. 
 
            And the yellow flowers remind me of her garden, 
her funeral at the church. I ask because 
           my cupboard's full of bulbs.