A cut daffodil

I watch my sisters from this tabletop
Their bonnets glowing, their feet in warming soil
The sun, unfiltered by the window glass
Shining on upturned triumphant trumpets
Glorious in their multitude they seem
To shout, as one golden voice, “here is spring!”
I was with them before the gardener tried
To recreate the glory here inside
To brighten for a few days only the gloomy house
I wanted to find a voice and cry to be left out
To be left where I could glow for weeks not days,
Cut down mid-bloom and stuck in freezing water
To sit here, murdered, dying, on a tabletop
And mourn beforetimes the ones to be cut after

NaPoWriMo Day 8, on prompt “in the manner of Spoon River Anthology”