each path diverges in two
walk the labrynth
the daffodils scent the air,
an invisible mist that coats everything.
the geese are quacking again,
hoping to coax more bread out of the visitors-
their feet cycle and churn the water beneath them
Signs direct “Bulbs planted, stay on path”
Wait for the surprise underneath.
The grandfather takes the grandson’s hand
and begins whistling again, a magical whistling that
sounds so real that it could come from a soundtrack
or from the radio.
The sun is high, the trees reach almost as high.