Blue Dress Hot Mess

We saw daffodils on New Year’s Day. Daffodils, on a village green, in Yorkshire. A yellow gleam.

There was snow in the clouds, ice in the air so sharp you could taste it. And daffodils in January, all huddled tightly in a little yellow row of bright faces.

The year changed; some tiny, imperceptibly seismic shift beneath a bed full of stars. A lot of noise, and resolutions, and affirmations — and daffodils, sitting quietly beside it all. There is a hope in the frost; a whole new year lying ahead of us, frozen future memories waiting to be burnt through the heat of living, lies to tell, friends to make, things to fall in love with. Those memories are the frozen bulbs below the surface of icy grass. Those are the roots of the yellow daffodils. They are insulated and warm in the knowledge of future fruition.

In them we must trust. So Happy 2025.