The Yellow

We stood by the earth,

the roses dark and deep,

a solemn, hushed birth

into a final sleep.

The air was thick with grief,

a fog no one could breach.

My heart found no relief,

beyond the preacher’s speech.

Then, on the polished wood,

a splash of shocking bright.

Misplaced, misunderstood,

a daffodil’s pure light.

It made me want to smile,

a strange, unbidden jolt.

For just a little while,

a momentary bolt.

Against the somber scene,

a burst of sunlit gold.

What does it even mean,

this story to be told?