Ah, Skunk Cabbage (above). Anyway, I went on so many snowy walks over the winter that it is strange now to be walking without whiteness all around. Without the snow, many more people are out and about, and all the places I like to walk in the woods feel accessible and exposed. The trees no longer feel like my own special little world. The walks are less magical.
That being said, it is lovely to have the tender colors of spring. I love the greens and the spring rain. The trees tiny buds are swelling, and our daffodils are starting to burst open into vivacious yellows and creamy whites.
I always think of William Wordsworth in spring. He roamed the English countryside with his friends, writing poems against the industrial revolution and “progress.” He also wrote copious amounts of romantic poetry about the little delights he found on his long walks. One such delight was a whole grouping of daffodils:
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.