The onion snow, come and gone and particularly rattling in its lateness, has left in its blustery and blood-moon wake the truth of the spring.
The wild chives on the terrace below the greenhouse suddenly, and without being disturbed, are as fragrant as a freshly mowed lawn.
The side-yard blue iris, every bit the family heirloom that first bloomed in Fort Wayne, Ind., seven decades ago, has more eagerly embarked on its 68th year.
The silver maple, planted in the front yard for quick shade but, 23 years later, rued for its shallow roots and regular submission to the bully winds, has gone from swollen buds to full blooms in a day. Its helicopter seeds, a sign of health but reproachable for smothering newborn grass seeking to establish itself, are not far behind.
The backyard crab apple, its 2013 fruits nearly exhausted by marauding birds, feels brave enough to begin leafing. Its bright white flowers are eagerly anticipated and, by extension, a sign of family health. The last time it did not bloom — in 2002 — the family patriarch passed away. Confirmation of being good to go for another year always is a relief.
The course of the seasons that are a piece of clockwork (as German scientist and satirist G.C. Lichtenberg once phrased it) has been running late of late. But its regulator finally appears to have been adjusted. Resurrection is the order of this Easter weekend. In more ways than one.
— Colin McNickle