For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. —excerpt from "Daffodils" by William Wordsworth
The first day of spring, I heard on the radio this morning, my head still nestled into my flannel-sheeted pillow, my body enveloped in a down comforter. A quilt. Sweatpants.
I used two fingers to separate the mini blinds. “Please, don’t let there be snow on the ground.”
No snow. But gray. Yet another day of gray. Another day of going through the motions. Dishes piled up in the sink, on the counters. Meetings. Emails. Feeling shrouded by some unnamed lethargy I’ve been feeling for a while.
I get to work and there’s a bundle of daffodils on my seat, wrapped three times with a thin rubber band. A benefit for cancer. I think they might have arrived yesterday, and I’m a little annoyed that no one put them in water. I’m not sure I’ll be able to appreciate them before I leave tomorrow. They’re closed tight, the stems all ending in a thin, pointed tan sheath. I find a vase on my desk (a cup, really), add water, and plop them in. Nothing thereafter could really constitute “arranging.”
Two hours later, most have burst from their shells. Yellow is emerging. I hear a “crack” and watch the light brown membrane separate from the stem. Within minutes, the brown falls away, color is exposed.
The brown falls away, color is exposed.
My springtime wish.