Daffodils

They said it on the radio:
Thousands of pounds worth of daffodils 
left unpicked in Cornwall;
Fields of potential
losing their bloom
to the rotting stench of missed opportunity.
The harvest is ready, he said
But the workers too few. 

Meanwhile, 
Brenda sits at her dining table
Reeling with shock at how quickly 

Jack's cough became his permanent absence

The added twist of the Mothers' Day knife

in her husbandless, childless gut.

Yet gratitude

as well as grief

catches in her throat:

There are flowers and a note and love on the table

delivered by the lady from church

who has been doing this kind of thing for years,

but much more systematically 

since getting recognition

from the new minister

who has a good eye for systems 

and is flourishing in this role

she never would have explored

if not encouraged by a deacon back home

who was so inspired 

by the prophetic vision

of the speaker at that event

who was surprised 

but pleased 

to be invited by her regional minister

who has felt humbled

by the quality of support

he's received from his colleague

who was that tired of all the 

malevolent and

"benevolent" and

systemic

sexism 

everywhere

that she almost quit,

if not for her mentor

who for many years was unsure of her own voice 

and worked hard to find it and share it

and help others find theirs, 

and each other's

and God's

and delights in what she hears 

from these folk coming through

and prays 

and hopes 

and speaks out for change

that they might not be trampled

but helped to bloom.

And so it is

that a vase of the daffodils 

that did get picked

now sits on Brenda's table;

bright and bold and defiant

heralding golden glimmers

of a harvest of hope.