Golden globes form hollow hearts,
acting as a lantern in part.
A tailored dress, and ruffled gown,
make walkers heads, look down.

Parading past the riverbank,
for children’s smiles, we have them to thank.
They return, year on year,
standing tall and firm, without a fear.

The petals stiff, yet soft as silk,
hundreds on hillsides, flowing like milk.
Gleaming in the morning sun,
and boldly still, as the day goes on.

But all good things must come to an end,
the petals wither and the stalks bend.
They fold down and return to the earth,
until next Spring, when the daffodils rebirth.