When a poet mentioned daffodils...

When we moved into the
house we built on Harad Court,
I planted daffodil bulbs
in the little wooded
area next to our home.
They were cheap ones, and
the flowers weren't that
strong. But they did arrive
each spring, pushing through
the cold earth, the mulch
of leaves, the trees protecting
them. And until today,
I haven't thought about those
daffodils, or if they still
arrive with spring.  Have
they multiplied or died?
Does their yellow goodness
bring a smile and a
wondering of the person who
planted? Or is there
no such thought as the trees
remember, but no one else
does?