who work the grounds here at the college. They planted
the many hundred daffodils that catch,
keep our attention between class. You see,
at first, a sea of yellow, Dutch Master,
Platonic form daffodil; you look
again, you spot the rarer breeds, you find
Tahiti—looks like scrambled eggs—an eye,
a Pheasant’s Eye! Red Devons’ fiery
coronas flaming out—the grass is not
consumed, we know not how. These did not grow
up by themselves. The workers sweat in fall;
they dig and set, tamp down, they place the chicken
wire, top it with an inch of mulch. There’s one
such worker with a back that’s bowed, skin flecked
and tanned from being outside all day long.
I glimpse him once a year—he’s busy, no doubt,
observing the command of Genesis
to work and watch the land. I call him Adam.