This morning I chanced upon daffodils as a wandering lonely cloud, in  Wordsworth’s own emotion recollected on poet’s couch.

Byron would  call the daffodils poem puerile. Dancing daffodils may be  puerile imagery but when there is wind there is wave. Images occur in waves, one after the other. Puerile is  childish but it is more toward childlike, a simple joy. A child is father of man.

Here in the barbers shop, talking across continents on whatasup,I told my son I was under a barber’s shroud. There were no daffodils on an old head. But rest assured they waved in it.

The barber asked everything? I said yes,everything.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s