The Daffodil

I sat by the pond. The warmth of the day surrounded, engulfed me. Beauty became tangible in the smell of the air, the sound of birdsong, the kiss of sun rays on my skin.
St David’s Day, the first day of March is surely too soon to be called Spring. But I took off my shoes and socks and walked barefoot in the dew on the grass. The action brought back memories of Roy and the poem he quoted that time. Thoughts of joy, of making the most of life, of living fully in the moment, all these, and more besides, made brief bright patterns on my conscious mind. Knowledge that is always there, hidden in the dark recesses of the human brain, was drawn forth to meet the beauty of the day and danced exulting in the sun.
In those moments I knew exactly what the hymn writers meant in extolling the beauty of the earth. The mists and fog that cloak the human soul cleared as the fog that swathed the earth at first light had cleared. Divine sunlight lit my soul as surely as the solar rays lit the flowers round the pond.
My wonder was great. I wondered that mere mortal could partake such heavenly joys. I wondered that such beauty is here in our world yet so seldom recognised. I walked again across the lawn, puzzling, pondering the human lot.
A splash of yellow caught my eye. A daffodil. Small, yet so significant, it spoke its own message. This was not just any daffodil. I had seen other such miniature bulbs in flower. It was not the first. Nor was it the large trumpet of my dreams.
But this flower, on this day, was special. It spoke to my heart. I knew then that life would go on to blossom and flourish. I knew that spring comes to the soul as well as to the garden.
This bloom, nurtured in the dark earth of winter, spoke hope to me as it proclaimed its conception in heaven. For we are fellow creatures. And each have our appointed time.