It snowed this evening, but there were crocuses last week. I always thought growing up on the east coast that snow on spring blossoms was one of the most beautiful fleeting things. But it happens so often here that when mid-March comes around I wish the snow to stop.
The litany of Spring was one of my great joys in childhood. Forsythia cuttings blooming indoors in January, snow drops in March pushing up through the frozen soil, then the first crocuses, and then the visual cacophony of hyacinth, tulips, daffodils, apple trees, vinca, forget-me-nots, lily-of-the-valley. Here Spring lasts about a week, then it snows and all the flowers die, and then it's summer.
I'm not complaining -- just reminiscing. There is no earthly paradise; denn wir haben hie keine bleibende stadt. The West has sublime wonders I never imagined as a child, but I will never forget New England's intimite beauty I came to love.
