I know that poets like Wordsworth have framed words about the daffodil that are beyond any I can assemble, but I must try, too, to plumb the depths of what these piercing yellow blooms come to mean on a cold rainy day in Michigsn.
They bow, yet are not obsequious. Their very form trumpets the time of growth yet speaks without fanfare and show.
They pop up through sod, in ditch banks, in gardens. Tenacious, surprising, and expected, yes even longed for, the daffodil is the harbinger of warmth.
On my kitchen windowsill on a wet day, they preach a silent sermon of life and light that emerges from the winter months and slowly turns my heart toward summer, again.