Over the last week, the temperature has been unseasonably warm, even approaching the 70s. We've had uninterrupted sun, and gentle rain, and downpours, and even the threat of tornadoes.
I know that spring isn't here. I know that more winter is coming. We'll probably even have more snow.
The daffodils have poked up their sturdy leaves and fattening teardrop buds. Soon, yards and woods will be littered with yellow and cream and orange and chartreuse blossoms. (My favorite daffodils in my yard open buds like the scrambled-eggs one toward the back right of this photograph, which I took today.)For as long as I can remember, I have loved daffodils. My mother called them jonquils, a word choice perhaps stemming from her Virginia roots. She planted and separated and re-planted hundreds of bulbs in our hilly, woody front yard. In our neighbors' forested front yard, running down a rolling hill toward us and the creek, thousands of daffodils bloomed, of every color and size and shape imaginable. As a little girl, I lay among them, drew them, colored them, dreamed, and later photographed them, again and again, never getting my fill of daffodil. Now, I try to pretend I'm more mature. However, I must admit to a fluttering when I see them pop up so heartily. Soon, I remind myself, soon. Soon I'll have another outrageous bunch like these (from last year):I shall not be disappointed.