I love daffodils
But I'm not really a fan of that Wordsworth poem. I don't mean to offend any devoted followers of Romanticism. It's just that the combination of flower-imagery and "dancing" tends to activate my gag reflex. And spring is such an archetypal poetic subject that it's hard to get beyond those, now, very over-used images. But spring, the actual experience of it, never gets old. The period of transition between seasons is always refreshing, though all around is rather vulnerable and exposed. This is a draft of a poem I've been working on the last couple weeks:
The frogs make their purple sound,
with the focus of crickets.
In the rain, the whole
town smells like swamp—
river-thaw and moss-musk.
Well, so far it's just a fragment; but we'll see where it goes.