I love daffs. They are the signature perfume of springtime and all things green. When I was growing up, daffodils were often the first to send tentative flat stalks up through the snow. The bank along my parents' yard would erupt with verdant fingers through that white blanket with buds wrapped in fine tan membranes. The flowers would open in a staggered flash like fans doing the wave at a baseball game.
I was so disheartened when they didn't come up. Surely the desert soil, or the lack or snow, or lack of cold dormancy had discouraged their thriving. For two spring seasons, I had no daffs. Eventually, I forgot where I'd planted them and gave up.
But then what should peek up through the dirt and fine gravel around my rosemary bush but those familiar flat tentacles--I had daffs! Just a couple, and a wee bit scraggly, but they bloomed.
I must confess that daffodils have always been my favorite flower, long before I discovered they are the national flower of Wales. [Those connections just keep on coming in that weird serendipitous web I seem to have stumbled into.] So of course, when I saw my daffodils would indeed be happy where they were, I got them their own dragon mascot. He's been Rustoleum-coated black a couple of times; that desert sun turns true red into pale pink by June. But he's a happy Draig holding a daff: