Daffodils. I mean, really. What have I ever done on this earth to deserve daffodils? Nothing, that’s what. Don’t you just want to die when you see them, popping out in starry bursts of gold in the morning? Like exuberant children out for the day with their sunny party hats on. Like teacups
of light and glory.
They are dancing happily all over our neighborhood this morning, and then when I’m in line at the McDonald’s drive through (ahem),
geese fly honking overhead. It’s all too much. Spring just kills me. The Bradford pears would have been enough for the rest of my life, but every day there is something else.
The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament shows his handiwork.
Someday I’d like millions of daffodils in the yard, like when I studied in England and the bus would go down the street and outside was just a sea of yellow, rippling in the wind, and inside I sat in bliss.
So I gathered some up this morning and brought them inside and they look lovely in the finally-cleaned kitchen.
Next up: laundry.
(I remember, this was one of my fourth-grade memory poems.)
I just looked it up and Wordsworth lived in England (I probably should have known that)so of course he had to write about daffodils. How could you not?