Crazy girls, they send their spikes out of cold ground in the dead of winter. What tells them it’s time to rise? As soon as I see the evidence of their grit, their willingness to bring me yellow in the midst of gray skies and brown ground, speckled now with winter weeds, I sigh.

As if I needed the daffodils to assure me that spring is on the way.

And, yet, I do. Winter wears on me, although I’ve gotten better at letting myself be a bear, hibernating as much as I can. But, it’s spring I live for, and these crazy girls will be blooming soon, with their ruffled skirts and winsome perfume, touching something deep inside me, wild and yearning and free.

 

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