marycatelli (marycatelli) wrote,

weather and spring

On the lawn to one side of the road, the scilla is blooming, its blue cup like flowers so thick than there is more blue than grass on a large stretch of the lawn.

The wind buffets me -- not quite chilly enough to make it nippy, but definitely chill -- and it is not merely damp but wet as it brushes against me. I can only hope the promise is fulfilled in rain.

I rouse from sleep to the scrabbling overhead, like a swarm of squirrels scrambling over the roof-- or perhaps the attic floor -- and I'm full awake before I can be certain that it's indeed rainfall. I have to get up and look out before I'm sure it's just pelting rain and not sleet or, worse, hail.

Spring is springing, with daffodils clumping, yellow or cream, everywhere along the road. A flock of chickens clucking about a farmyard, masses of muted and fluffed up orange.

A pond that was, last drought-ridden summer, water in the center of a concentric high water marks, has filled up to the brim with snow melt and rainfall.

Bands of storms move over the afternoon. Expanses of blue sky and sunlight, with wispy white cloud, broken as charcoal gray cloud march in, chilling the air even before they open with rain.

It snows, it snows, it snows -- in the garden, the tulips' buds, peach pink and orange just before unfolding, are bent down by snow, the blooms almost to the ground, fiery spots against the white -- which is not a becoming color contrast. (And it takes them nearly a week to regain their upright posture, after.)

It must have been freezing rain here. Every branch of every trees is gleaming in the sunlight, wet from the melt.

It rains, the wind blows, and one of the tulips can only be described as peeled -- the three outermost petals flop down as far as when the tulip wilts, but the inner ones are still tucked up in a bud.

The higgledly-piggledly dumping of mulch in my garden has lead to my rediscovering crocus after crocus as each one managed to push its way back the brown bark. A little assistance uncovers the leaves, often particolored green and a ghastly vivid yellow from before and while forcing their way back up.

A tree has white blossoms spangled about, here and there, on boughs set with leaves green but still furled against the bark.

Beside the road, a gully stretches out into the woods. Brush to either side is a fairy-delicate array of new leaves, dainty and of the palest of greens. at the bottom of it, like a stream, grow the skunk cabbage, distinctly green, crowded together, and not rising up on the banks.

How suddenly the trees all bloom together. A cherry tree, with double and ruffled petals in vivid pink and its leaves still new with red and green pigments alike visible, and a cardinal, bright red, perched among them for variations on ruddy theme. A pink dogwood has not yet unfurled its flowers, and the orange-shaded pink is intenser than every. A crabapple is stygian between the deep, deep rose red of the furled buds, and the leaves striving for an impossible reddish-green.

Ah, planting the garden. One plants a forget-me-not that's blue, and there is a pink sprig within a week. And trying to work the summer flowers about the crocuses, ready to take over when their greenery goes away.

On a gray day, the cream-colored daffodils look funeral, like the flowers that Persephone dropped when Hades abducted her.
Tags: nature

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