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.
Walkers usually keep to themselves. We’re an introverted bunch. But yesterday was different.
“Can you believe this day?” a woman said to me as she came closer, gesturing to the blue sky, her arms raised as if I were a long-lost friend.
I thought for a moment we might know each other, so enthusiastic was her greeting. But no, she was just a fellow traveler, her tongue loosened by the endorphins or the trail or the fact that we were both alive and well on a glorious spring morning.
A male cardinal hops along the front walk, pauses briefly, then flies up to perch on a slender branch of the climbing rose, his crimson plumage shouting out from amidst the green.
It’s not long before he’s back on ground, foraging in the leaf meal, pecking around the forget-me-nots, glinting in the periwinkle.
He shines, this cardinal, his feathers brighter, as I’ve read they are this time of year. He’s all decked out for the ladies, of course. And I’m lucky enough to be around for the show.
(Unfortunately, the cardinal couldn’t be bothered to pose. But I did snap a quick photo from the rear.)
So far, April is proving to be as wet as March was windy. The months are playing their usual roles, in other words.
I feel a certain responsibility on rainy days: unless otherwise occupied, I should use them for cleaning closets or going through old files in the basement.
Which means that after I’ve written, and after I’ve studied, and after I’ve made today’s calls and sent today’s emails, I must get myself to the nether regions of the house … and fight the good fight.
The new month has crept up on me. Though it is April in reality, it is March in my mind. What to do about this? Get out and walk through it, I suppose.
I’ll be looking for the usual signs: violets nodding in the early grass, bluebells along the path. The yellow blossoms of forsythia greening along the stem. And if we’re lucky, the dogwood and azaleas will overlap enough to make the tableau you see above.
Winds will blow, rain will fall, maybe even snow. But the sun will mean business. That’s another way to know that April is really here.