26 April 2025 (morning news)

morning news

a hard rain flattening

the daffodils

25 April 2023 (all-day rain)

all-day rain

washing dirt

from the daffodils

25 April 2021 (daffodils)

my thoughts daffodils every which way

22 May 2019 (daffodils)

trading birdsong

for daffodils

green friendship

17 April 2019 (daffodils)

birthday wishes

driving a few hours south

to find daffodils

April 12: Yellow

Rainy afternoon.

Unexpected stop

to buy pots of daffodils.

Posted with Blogsy

February 1: Inspiration

Brigid's Day--
poetry inspired by
grocery store daffodils.

March 29: Snow on daffodils

These early spring snowfalls can be painful, especially if you've been teased by "real" spring weather already--air like warm breath on the back of your neck that made you sweat, that whispered sweet nothings about swelling leaf buds and opening flowers. We woke this morning to more snow falling, though accumulation was minimal. They call this late snow "poor man's fertilizer," because it's supposed to somehow help the greening. Once it melts, of course. And my lawn does look like it's reviving a bit.

In our garden right now, bright green shoots of chives look positively savory. Bulbs--lilies and tulips--are sending forth an advance guard of greenery. The rosy tips of peonies are poking through the surface of the soil. And I already had to pull up some dandelions. But the view from our front step, looking up at Mount Battie, resonates with the misplaced glory of the season past: the mountain's crags and ledges frosted with snow. The white ridgeline of larger, higher Mount Megunticook, visible up the street, is even more dramatic. I feel like we're living right on the threshold between two seasons struggling for power, winter on one side and spring on the other. What makes it bearable, what makes it possible to enjoy the delicate beauty of the snowy mountains despite my longing for heat, is that I know spring will eventually win out.

Daffodils' green necks
barely bend beneath the snow.
They too wait for sun.