Daffodils
Every year in late January, I see them. And every year I think–too soon! But there they are, dozens of little green swords, blunt tips shooting up through the cold ground: the daffodils are coming.
By Valentine’s Day they’re in full bloom, and not only beside the steps of my front porch. Everywhere I go I see them. They grow up beside mailboxes and trees, along ditches and roadsides, in fields where cows graze, in the yard of an abandoned house; bright clumps of yellow all along the brown winter landscape.
It’s fitting that daffodils represent rebirth and new beginnings–they are the first blooming thing I see every year in my yard. And though my brain thinks February is too early–it’s still winter, after all–that such delicate looking blooms will not survive the cold yet to come, they seem to know what they are doing. Spring is coming.
The wonderful thing about the daffodils beside my porch is I didn’t plant them. Thirteen years ago, the first January we lived here, they were a surprise. Their placement seems random, they aren’t clustered together neatly, but scattered–a clump here, another there–almost like the bulbs were sown wildly, hopefully, under the kitchen window. Wildly. Hopefully. Kinda the way I live. And so it’s become my custom to take pictures of them. To document this delightful surprise: daffodils that still shock me with their appearance each year.
🖤
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