The first [daffodils] of the season are sprouting on my pocket-handkerchief sundeck—bursts of yellow on sappy stems. It seems almost wrong for them to be so yellow and so confident of the coming of spring. It is still winter. They are early. I am quite annoyed with them, which is perverse. […]
The pots on the sundeck are studded with strappy leaves, and stems topped with furled yellow buds, and, until I cut it a few minutes ago, there was this one arrogant or self-confident bloom ahead of all the rest, with its open-hearted, imprudent embrace of possibility. […]
Daffy daffodils. They open themselves in this way to light and sun and rain, exposing their innards, advertising their vulnerability with a splash of colour in the grey, shaded, pre-spring garden.
Spring is coming, the daffodils say. Hope springs eternal. And all that.
I am going to cut more of the furled yellow buds, put them in a vase, and watch them open in the warmth of my living room.
—Margaret Simons, Six Square Metres: Reflections from a Small Garden
I’ve been reading Simons’ wry, wonderful memoir about her tiny garden in the inner suburbs of Melbourne (kindly sent to me by the good folks at Scribe US). I don’t have any outdoor space for bulbs, but I’ve been filling my kitchen with Trader Joe’s daffodils lately, and her words were a perfect match for the cheery yellow blooms that are making my kitchen cart so happy right now.
