A couple of weeks ago, I fiddled around with a poetic exercise using a template Mary brought to my attention. The result can be found here.
Doing that exercise reminded me of a fond memory from my childhood. I was about 12 years old, out for a bike ride on a fine spring day. As I pedaled past a vacant lot, a spectacular sight took my breath away, and brought me to a screeching halt. The lot was covered with hundreds of daffodils, trumpeting their glory.
Like a sirenís song, the daffodils called to me, and I was helpless to resist. I parked my bike and walked around the lot, filling my arms with the bright yellow flowers. It was fortunate that my bicycle had a basket, as I had gathered quite a large bouquet.
When I got home, I divided the daffodils into two bunches, and gave one half of my treasure to the elderly woman who lived next door. I can still picture the smile that spread across her face as I held the flowers out to her. Because of this experience, daffodils are one of my favorite flowers. (Lilacs are the other.)
I planted bulbs at our old house, and was disappointed when not one daffodil (and only a couple of tulips) appeared. I didn't inherit my mother's gardening gene, and, in fact, have a black thumb instead of a green one.
When I moved to this house, I decided to give it another try. I am happy to report that the dozen daffodil bulbs I planted in the fall are now standing tall and proud (and it appears that I will have a decent crop of tulips, as well). Due to this success, I just might plant more this fall. One can never have too many daffodils!