Cultivating Daffodils

On the grey porch drinking tea, gazing out into the world dreaming about what could be and remember what you said on the paper that is now crumpled with daffodils that are wilted by the window. Clear day shines through the window which draws me to the paper. I see the lines and contently remember the day that you learned daffodils were my favorite and drank tea together, while sitting closely and dreaming. Full of hope, we continued dreaming of a new life with daffodils where we could only jokingly remember the past. Looking towards the window I smelled the dark bittersweet tea and tightly held the indispensable paper. I looked down at the paper, and thought about our past dreaming and how no amount of tea could help me sleep when daffodils arrived at the door. The window could not painstakingly seem to remember which path you chose. To remember is the only way for dreaming to occur in restless nights. Tea is still sipped and the window still shines on the defining paper and the now wilted daffodils. Slowly I begin to see daffodils blooming in the yard, and dreaming seeds sprouting into what becomes paper and it becomes bearable to remember how we used to drink tea. I remember that dreaming opens windows and that paper can't plant daffodils. For only I can sweeten tea.