THE DAFFODILS
The house was a mess. Dirty dishes were on the table. The living room was in disarray, boots and gloves strewn about from a snow trip to the mountains the day before. Then my five-year-old son, who had been playing outside, brought in a fistful of violets. He had permission to pick these tiny blossoms which grow profusely in the lawn. Could he pluck a daffodil, he asked? I shook my head yes. He came running back with questions that led me to get down the encyclopedia. “This is the stamen, the pistil (no not the kind you shoot), the pollen.” He was fascinated as I told him how a bee gets the “yellow dust” on its feet and flies to another flower. I thought of something else. I searched to find a book of poetry that contained Wordsworth’s poem “Daffodils.” “I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I…
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