The daffodils were stirring.
The winter had been long and cold; they had sought sanctuary in the darkness, preferring to hide away, rather than show their hand.
In the past year their delicate petals had been damaged, their stems twisted out of shape. They had wanted to make their voices heard.
That was, after all, their right but, instead, they had held their tongues.
They waited. Down, but not out. Hibernating.
Now they were stirring: pushing skywards, opening up, revealing their hand.
They knew their moment was coming when they felt the light shifting in the mornings and started to feel the strength returning to their fibres.
But, in the end, it was the most unexpected turn of events that gave them the true impetus to bloom.
The blond tresses scattered like wild flowers across the white pillow; the warmth of the embrace at the first light of day.
The daffodils weren’t afraid to reach out. Their patron saint’s day was coming and they would not be alone in emerging from the winter gloom.
They pushed higher, opening their petals to the air, turning their faces to the sun.
Spring was coming. Life moves on.