The Kwanzan cherry had barely begun to leaf this time last week. But the warm temperatures of early April have sent it into overdrive.
I’m spending some time this morning just looking at the tree, observing how the big-fisted flowers bend its branches to earth.
The Kwanzan is not as ethereal as the Yoshino cherry, which typically blooms a few weeks earlier. It’s an earthier, later blossom. It’s best photographed up close, I think, against a bright blue sky.
Speaking of buttercups … spring unspooled slowly through the month of March. Daffodils that bloomed in late February were still with us this time last week.
But in the last few days the season hit fast forward. Our dogwood and Kwanzan cherry were barely leafing out on Monday; now they’re in full flower. Temperatures above 85 degrees will do that to a plant.
I’m hoping that today’s burst of cool air has stopped time enough to preserve “nature’s first green,” which is gold. It’s been gold for weeks now. I hope, against all evidence to the contrary, that it will stay.
(A hyacinth blooms in February.)
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
I don’t have many lines of poetry at my fingertips, but for some reason, I have these by A. E. Housman. Today, I’m thinking about — and looking at — the pale pink weeping cherry in the backyard.
It wasn’t planted, and I wasn’t even aware of it until we almost lost it in the great tree debacle of 2018. But it must have been there, growing slowly and a bit crookedly, trying to reach the light through a thick canopy.
But now the yard is open, tree coverage is sparse, and the delicate plants, including this earnest volunteer, have a chance to shine.
Such is the life cycle of a forest, even when the forest is in a backyard.
(This volunteer may be kin to another I wrote about several years ago.)
Today is our first full day of astronomical spring, though the chilly morning temps make it feel more like winter. We in the mid-Atlantic have been spoiled this year, with snowdrops blooming in January and daffodils in February. It’s been a non-winter.
Now that we have late light, too, I feel a bit like Punxsutawney Phil, dragged out of his burrow only to dip back in because the sun’s too bright. These late-light evenings, as much as they thrill, can seem like too much too soon.
There’s a part of me that still craves the lamplit afternoon, the cozy cocooning feel you have in winter, a pot of soup bubbling on the stove, no outside chores calling my name to add to the inside chores that are always with me.
In other words, winter gives me a pass of sorts. And now … that pass is over.
As we move ahead into this strangely early spring, I’m enjoying the flowers that have bloomed and noticing a feature about them that I may not have fully appreciated before … and that is clumping.
There are clumps of Lenten roses, clumps of daffodils and clumps of snowdrops. It’s just the way they grow and spread, I know. But the impression is one of abundance and joy.
It seems that flowers, like humans, enjoy the company of their kind.
I know I’m a May (as opposed to male) chauvinist, but really, what’s not to like about this month?
The climbing rose is blooming its heart out. The Big Heat is just getting warmed up (though it’s early this year, will be 95 here today). And the air is scented with honeysuckle flower.
Schools are letting out, vacations are beginning, days are long and languid.
I’m grateful to be embarking upon another trip around the sun today. I just snuck into May … but I’m glad I did.
Every year is some plant’s year to shine. Last year the redbuds stole the show. Or at least the ones I saw were resplendent in their budding show of strength, their pinks and purples peeking out from amidst sprays of dogwood white.
This year, it’s the rhododendrons’ turn to shine. Whether it’s just that I’m noticing them more or that certain meteorological conditions are favoring them I’ll never understand, inexpert gardener that I am.
All I know is that our own specimen aside (and it has its hands full thriving in the midst of a bamboo patch), other area plants are standing up to rain and wind and alternate blasts of warmth and cold. They are sending us big-fisted flowers that remind us, as do their compatriots, of how much we need spring.
(I cheated a bit with the photo: it’s from last year’s May trip to Seattle. I know of no Virginia plants that look like this.)
We were pelted overnight by some much-needed rain. I could hear it beating the earth, could imagine it puddling on the driveway and in the low spots of the front yard.
This morning the world looks fresh and clean. The azaleas are greening, shedding their brilliant jewel-toned flowers and becoming the sedate shrubs they are for most of the year.
It’s a quiet, still day so far, the calm after the storm. Which at this point is … most welcome.
I spent almost every minute Sunday outside: reading on the deck, bouncing on the trampoline, weeding in the yard, swinging on the hammock.
It seemed the best way to honor the day, to be in it as much as possible. Because in this place, in this clime, spring is the season.
Now I’m back at my desk, finishing up work for class tonight, trying to channel any intellectual energy I have to the difficult task at hand. Deconstructionism: there’s a reason why the prof saved it for last.
But my heart is out there with the wood poppies and the lilacs, with the azaleas and the begonias, resplendent and dear.
How wise were the Earth Day founders to honor our “other mother” on this day, in this season (at least for those of us in the northern hemisphere).
For who can ignore the earth on a day like this: just warming, just greening, filled with eye-popping color.
With tender shoots and delicate blossoms.
Still far too many of us, I’m afraid.
