New England Spring

It certainly was lovely last year when everything bloomed at once.  We had crocuses, daffodils, and tulips all at the same time, and forsythia and azaleas to boot.  It was so warm on the day of the Boston Marathon, the heat was a danger to the runners.  We enjoyed it, but there was eeriness about it as though something wasn’t right. 

Today I took my walk outdoors.  On dry days there’s no more need to go around and around the supermarket. The sun was shining, but the wind was blustery and blew some of the grit the sanders left on the pavement into my face.  This is New England, and when we got all those lovely blossoms everywhere, we knew in our hearts we’d have to pay for them. When the blizzard blew the lights out and the furnace off, we remembered that unnatural, almost torrid spring. 

It’s after five on a Sunday afternoon, and the April light is as it should be, but the sound of the wind is about the house.  It doesn’t howl like the blizzard, but it lets us know we aren’t being softened up.  A few daffodils bloom in the sunniest spots, and the tulips are budded tight.  The forsythia has an inkling its moment is approaching, but it’s biding its time.