Sorry, William Wordsworth. Seeing your “host of golden daffodils” blooming in the pouring rain, in England, in early January this year, I couldn’t help but borrow your format to express my utter amazement. In a far less literary, but probably more contemporary way… Daffodils? In January? I wandered lonely, cursing loud At mud and sh*t … Continue reading Oh, Wordsworth: what have I done to your daffodils?
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