A
gentle rain came last evening, coating everything and bringing desperately
needed moisture. This morning, in the dewy fog, all the late apple blossom,
viburnam and dogwood petals were laden heavily with water, drooping low and
tired looking.
With a
clearing sun, the wind blew in as the temperatures rose, and I watched the
petals seeming to fall in harmony, then blow about on the street in swirls and
eddies like snowfall after a light dusting.
It was
as if spring were shuddering its final colors, readying for summer’s approach,
and I for one am simply not ready for its departure. The naturalist Hal Borland
wrote that “no winter lasts forever,” and I am afraid that such is true with
spring.
We
still have the sweet smells of our lilacs to remind us of the pleasures of this
season, and the growth continues in field and forest with lighter greens giving
way to the darker shades of verdant maturity. Our honeysuckles will bloom any
day now, with sickly sweet perfume that reminds me of something pleasant from
my summer youth.
No
spring does last forever, and rhythms of the seasons progress one onto the
other, stacking itself into this thing we mark as time.
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