Monday, May 2, 2011
Some springs are simply better than others. They begin earlier and last longer.
Every five or so years, a few blistering days will arrive early in March, spurring on blooms that one does not expect until much later in the season. Then the proper cold snaps back, preserving those early flowers even as the later buds appear and swell and burst; everything hanging tight like the contents of a florist's fridge.
So that you have a day like today when a walk to the market resembles a grand garden show, where mismatched mates clamber over each other some whispering, others bellowing for attention.
The clematis and honeysuckle and azaleas and dogwood (haven't they been astonishing?) should have paled by now, but they're still resplendent against their beds of ivy and pachysandra. There are even a few malingering tulips, brilliant leaves hanging by threads.
Meanwhile, the roses (at least a week early) are rioting over garden walls, elbowing aside the equally premature peonies, as the iris stand stately, aloof to the hubbub.
As one might expect, the scent of it all is near overwhelming.