Today the landscape looks raw, scraped gray by the rigors of winter. Shoulder-high piles of branches lie by the roadside, remnant fences of last winter’s big ice storm. On my drive to work, I pass forests shorn by that ice; broken trees poke jagged shafts toward the sky but they look hostile and menacing, like the trees in a horror movie. Winter litter still lies along th
e roadside: errant plastic bags, beer cans, mashed cardboard boxes, the mysteriously shredded tires of eighteen-wheelers.
But it is spring, and the daffodils are up. They're unassuming little splashes of color, except where some imaginative gardener has massed them in large patches or spread them in wide ribbons along a walkway . Mostly they nod and bob alone in the cold gusts of wind, take lonely bows under the hard rain.
Close up, though, each daffodil is a golden world, a buttery promise of warmth to come. Sunshine in a cup.
e roadside: errant plastic bags, beer cans, mashed cardboard boxes, the mysteriously shredded tires of eighteen-wheelers.But it is spring, and the daffodils are up. They're unassuming little splashes of color, except where some imaginative gardener has massed them in large patches or spread them in wide ribbons along a walkway . Mostly they nod and bob alone in the cold gusts of wind, take lonely bows under the hard rain.
Close up, though, each daffodil is a golden world, a buttery promise of warmth to come. Sunshine in a cup.
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