We're daffodils and we don't care

You know daffodils have attitude.

The ground is half frozen like my joints after a day in the yard. The sun still argues over the overcast winter sky. The calendar says, nope. No movement in the flower bed. Undeterred, daffodils mount their offensive.

Attitude. It's been a minute since they spoke. First out last spring, they chilled, waiting for the rest of their flower kin to catch up. By July, they were done, having said their peace. In our yard, mom tied the slender leaves together. Ever see a flower with it's arms crossed? It's personal.

Somewhere between half baked summer, leaf covered fall, and winter's tundra, daffodils went off the radar.

Hiding in the cold and dark, they stopped, caring. Done with this. Movement ceased as they drew in. Even God let them grieve.

The spring sun drew closer, looked down on lowly earth. Cold rain trickled down upon the perturbed bulbs. Miserable.

God whispered, you know who you are. It is in you. The pressure swelled in their little bulb hearts.

They pushed against the rigid soil. Dark soil cracked, and radiant beams pummeled the obstinate dirt. Slender green blades weaved , tearing from the surface.

It's been a year, or three. It's been dark, neglectful, evil one could argue. It’s tempting to stay put, hidden, unnoticed, silent. God who made you would whisper, arise, shine, your light has come.