Daffodil bonnets waved in a well lit breeze, a capering cadence, a well rooted riot of tamest ease. Through winter they’d slumbered, bulbs cradled in full-dark. Come first softening, come the flow of ice-banished rain, green wands tarried not. No! No! Up, up they came. The tight buds of March graduated in April, and how handsome was their flock! Of beauty they gave in ample generosity. Of scent they gave the same! Ne’er was a floral chorus more bright-bold, more bass-baritone, more strident in the declaration of spring’s sweet song.
The monarch butterfly was a-caper upon a carol of daffodils; daffodils singing out their colours, daffodils dancing out their blues. Its wings opened as a picture book, one of childhood days, fluttering as pages turned by a youthful hand. My gaze formed a ribbon, one of velvet light, from my heart to this insect of purest delight. If a life is to be measured in motes of joy, not in years, then am I not already the elder of so many peers? Perhaps. Perhaps. It is the artist's way, is it not, to see, to feel, to fold themselves into mother nature?
The daffodils, golden stars and trumpets of the rising green, come as silent choir for the eyes and soul.
In exchange of golden glances is told the love story between the sun and the daffodil.
The daffodils, in ever golden song, take in the heavens this spring day.
The dance of the daffodil is one of golden petals in freely given wind.