I now realize that daffodils are the Clark Kent of the plant world. Behind that mild-mannered unassuming fa�ade lies a plant of steel.

April 28, 2010 will go down in my life as a dark day indeed. I woke up to find over ten inches of snow all over my gardens. We're not talking ten inches of soft, billowy powdery snow. What we're talking about here is stupidly heavy snow quite similar in texture to a slushie.

This is what I saw looking down out of my bedroom window:

Know what was under all those tons of snow? My daffodil meadow. My beloved daffodil meadow. My beloved daffodil meadow which had been in full flower. This is what it looked like as the snow started to melt:

Oh yeah, there were tears. Every single daffodil was utterly flattened. It looked as if someone had taken an iron to my meadow.

It wasn't just the loss of the flowers that got to me. Daffodils gather their strength through their leaves. Flattened leaves cannot compete with meadow grass and over a summer will get utterly shaded out. No sunlight, no energy stored in the bulb for next spring's riot of colour.

Not only would I lose this year's flowers, it would mean that the bulbs would be weakened and might not even flower at all next year. There was a lot of brooding over what a dark, cruel universe a certain gardener is forced to live in.

It is hard not to be bitter.

Then over the next day the daffodils did the most extraordinary thing. The plucky little plants dusted themselves off and gradually began to lift their flattened leaves. You have no idea how happy that made me feel. Honestly, that would have been enough. Just knowing that next year they would flower would have been gift enough.

Then, to my utter amazement, they lifted up their honking heavy flowers. It took them another day to accomplish this, but accomplish it they did. Early in the morning the daffodil meadow was a sea of spikes. By that evening, it was awash in colour and perfume.

I am still amazed.�Marn