Prospect

The smell of daffodils at dawn
raises spirits, like the sun
that lights upon the lounging lawn
now that night is done;

with yellow fingers stretching out
blooms become minuscule hands
to grab the gold that’s all about
before it ever lands.

A bumblebee’s been bitten by
lust for gold, that greedy bug
and tries to pilfer, on the sly
as much as it can lug,

tonight the moon turns new again
daffodils will never know
they’ll be asleep while dreaming when
the glow of life will show.

A wealth of ways to win awaits
those that dig devoid of shame
in search of more affluent fates
we all would love to claim.