One day in spring, crossing a paved-over parking lot beside an old house, I noticed a patch of broken asphalt. Through it I could see brown soil and something green, but I walked right on by. A few days later though, I saw the green thing had become a golden daffodil--as tall and proud as any Wordsworth might have seen and praised, but all alone, the last of its kind, Then I stopped, and looked--and I wrote this.

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