This is dedicated to the end of spring. I was introduced to her again this year by the unprecedented appearance of this bloom in the front yard of my house. After snapping a photo and bringing the logged specimen to my grandmother, I was introduced to her as 'crocus'.
My addiction to Spring began the year I studied in Paris. In Paris, Winter was not necessarily ugly, but as soon as the buds appeared on the trees, the town was filled with a sort of fever. I picked a stem of buds to keep as a bookmark.
Now, every Spring I coo in wonder, breathlessly waiting for the next evolvement, the new players. I have wanted to write on Spring since she arrived, but the ever constant change of costume persuaded me to wait.
Crocus are the first bloomers. I had never seen them before, because they normally spring from snow. They are not afraid of the last, yet to come cold fronts. They lead the dance to Spring. In the finance world, companies and sectors who recover quickly from recessions are known as 'crocus', after the bulb.
After crocus came the flood of daffodils, followed by waterfalls of wisteria and the blue splash of irises. And then, as if to remind us from whence we once came, the dogwoods displayed their lace, from virginal white to tinted rose-traditional yet in a slightly newer shape than the year before. The air, saturated with honeydew, lay heavy.
Soon however, she will disappear, and the thoughts of renewal will be more self-willed. I despair the loss of Spring, but am surely comforted by the promise of her return.
