It’s that time of the year when I recite Auntie Wordsworth’s “I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud.” I normally recite it as I walk.
When all at once I saw a single one. A daffodil that is. Not a solitary poet out for a walking tour of the Lake District. Which would be hard to do in midcoast Maine.
No, this was a singular daffodil. None of its host around.
How did it get to be alone, I wondered? Did it one night, under a full moon, decide to pull up its bulb, and shuffle away from the drowsy mob with their yellow heads stuck in a circle of despondency?
Yes, I like to think it did. Roaming around in the dark, its bright yellow head lighting its way. Until, trumpet call, it finds a lonely spot, not another daffodil around for miles. Not even a little shimmer of bright yellow to disturb it. Alone. Singular. A flower unto itself. Defined by nothing except its own yellowness. Just it and the great fiery orb in the sky.
Maybe that’s why it was so jocular when I passed it. Giddy in the breeze. Happy to be alone.
I can’t say the same thing for its band of yellow brothers, dripping yellow stains of melancholy, hanging their heads in mild sufferance to the lost daffodil.
Virginia Woolf: “All my facts about lighthouses are wrong.”
“Life is a great surprise. I don’t see why death should not be an even greater one.” Vladimir Nabokov.