Even last week I doubted it. The spots by the road that have in past years exploded with daffodils seemed barren. I resigned myself to a spring without them. 

But suddenly, if one can describe the appearance of green leaves as sudden, flowers appeared. Between brown bushes, along the pavement, even in my own yard clusters of emerald fingers broke through the dirt, and I think they had a whiff of attitude.

If I had forgotten to look for them I could have convinced myself that the prophetic signs were in place, but I didn't. It was like when I turn on the music. It is off, then it is on. There were none, then there were many. 

For several weeks I avoided my sewing room. Sewing is a source of joy for me but the sadness of four deaths in two weeks dropped a gate between me and my fabric. Why sew when children are crying themselves to sleep? 

Then the notion to create quilts for these families pushed out of the dirt. Bam, like that, I started pulling out patterns and making samples. People responded, even those who describe themselves as craft aversive. 

A friend whose marriage had seemed pretty bleak for a long time expressed her surprise that things seemed better. Much better. Where had it come from?

Maybe the Maker of the daffodils.