Do you think that Wordsworth ever stopped to smell the daffodils?
I'm getting lost in whirlpools, where words don't really exist.
But I thought about the daffodils he saw, the imprint on his mind, when he was feeling blue but wanted to feel more yellow...
And I've been bending down to daffodils in different hills, in the morning, at midday, at night, and breathing in - and in - and deeper, that fine delicate scent they have. Imagine fresh clean clothes, it's like that, but more refined, and somehow prettier.
If there was a perfume of daffodil, I'd buy shelf loads of it. It's heaven to the nostrils; but you must stay with it; it requires your time. You can't expect to breathe it all in, in one gulp, like beer. It takes time to detect it, time to stay with it, time to appreciate it, like a fine wine.
So, only kneel and give reverence to the daffodil if you have time to spare; it will show the fragrance of angels; if you wait - wait - wait and if you stay - stay - stay.
But soon the daffodils will be gone. The primroses are already taking over, and the tulips. I love these too. But I will mourn the scent of these splashes of sunshine on the earth, till they come again, next spring.
Words written: 0
Daffodils smelt: 16
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