Spring

When I was a boy, my mother enlisted me to plant a bushel basket of daffodil bulbs in the field in front of our home. Not to plant row by row, but to form giant letters that would say “SPRING” in yellow blossoms. For years, they did. Time passed. Then, on a Sunday in May, I chanced to return to my boyhood home. I drove the long gravel driveway expecting the daffodils to be no more, long subsumed by overgrowth. But the field that once said “SPRING” was now entirely yellow … a thousand thousand blossoms … a sea of daffodils