They stand, their faint yellow buds
Enclosed within beige, rustling hoods
Atop a slender, frail, green stem,
The ever-changing elements bewildering them.
The beckoning sun, fierce winds that blow,
Sleeting rain, frost, and hail, turning to snow,
No human voice can make them understand
If it is time to bloom, or wait for God's command.
And yet, though Nature's Spring is not too soon,
The flowers and trees begin to bud in tune.
Weathers may change, yet ever still,
Undaunted they bloom, the daffodils. By V Entwistle
Burnmoor Road
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