Despite having a sinus condition that has been assaulting me for the better part of a month, I decided to go to the park.
Every year, I look forward to seeing the forsythias, which to me (more than daffodils, and even more than the magnolias) mark the beginning of a new season and all the optimism that implies. Whenever I miss seeing them -- in recent years, because of the pandemic or running injuries -- I feel like I've skipped something important, a door has shut.
You reach an age, I've learned, when you understand that the number of years in front of you is not as limitless as you once imagined.
As expected, the park was wearing a lot of yellow.
And white.
The elm trees waited patiently backstage for the opening act to finish.
I was comforted to know that I hadn't missed too much.
The grape hyacinth were prancing around.
The heather was in bloom, a tapestry of color.
Somehow, I didn't know that these are called 'The Glory of the Snow.' (Chionodoxa forbesii)
Here's a patch of lesser celandine, whose innocent allure is apparently best to ignore. It's an invasive species that will inhibit the growth of native plants. (Nothing is easy, of course.)
And finally, the forsythia. Up close, a golden room.
From a distance, the flowers seem to be jumping off the steep cliff, which is a feeling -- the combination of fear and escape -- I always like to imagine.
Flying through the air.
Landing on the other side, walking through the valley.
