Meryl Natchez

Eleven Daffodils

What am I to make of these daffodils,
perfumed strumpets
picked who knows where
by who knows whom
perhaps genetically modified,
commercially fertilized,
doused with pesticide?

These questions did not arise
when I tossed the budded stems 
into my shopping cart
on a chill afternoon:
essence of spring 
for a dollar twenty-nine.

Now they sit
and radiate scent,
molecules of daffodil 
mixing with molecules of oxygen
around my desk
until I am dizzy 
with praise
and regret.