Daffodil Ease Through the crisp soundless white of winter, swampy early spring and the exhausted dust of late summer the daffodils don’t even exist. The spectacle of green, a hope of color— unreal.   Yet there’s holiness in those sleeping bulbs, they pierce the thin shell of unreality— alive while frozen unstained by mud dozing in the hot sun— at ease.   Finding no fault in what changes. Which is beautiful? What becomes ugly? One arises, the other dissolves. Which to hold? What to reject? Like the daffodil, sit through it all— It’s nothing but mind.