Greetings, dear readers.
One of the things I love most in spring is that sense of being on the brink – on the brink of new life and of easier weather, of the return of nesting birds and blooming wildflowers, on the brink of butterfly season and asparagus season and being out in air that feels washed clean after a rainstorm.
I love the sense of anticipation in seeing flowers about to burst. These are the racemes of wild cherry blossoms on the tree in my front yard. They don’t look like much yet, but the tree is prolific and there are hundreds of these still-green fingers waving in every breeze. Each tiny flower is a little floral fist, holding tight until the flower bursts forth.
It’s enchanting, that moment before – the breath before the song.
In less than a week, the cherry tree will be in full bloom, covered in lacy white spikes. Every year I get to marvel at the show – the green, the white, the dance with the breeze, and then the tiny fruit, fit only for the blue jays who squabble over them. And the circle runs again.