“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose/ By any other name would smell as sweet.” Shakespeare’s Juliet was right, neither her love nor the season of flowers depend on a name, but oh my goodness these last days of May is extraordinarily sweet. I invite you to scroll through this post and linger over each botanical image. You will be elevated. You might even be inclined to find your own blooming spring beyond your doorway.
Driving along my road home, both front windows open, the sky draws my eyes upward. This is one of those late spring days that you remember. Actually, it is just this moment, not the whole day, but you get my meaning. Ordinary yet memorable. Worth holding on to a little longer. The scene? Rolling hills all around me. Cows out to pasture. Horses too. Green fields popping with yellow dandelions. A flock of geese settled down momentarily by a reedy pond. Black birds darting from one side of the road to the other as a dare, they play, cavalier about the outcome. How close they flap by my bumper! Crabapple blossoms cover each and every branches with puffs of pale pink and even speeding past their fragrance is a wafting sweetness. All this in one flash of a moment.
On Mother’s Day, my spouse and I ventured into the woods, she with her camera, and I with a hat. Spring in Vermont fully here, bird song, rushing rivers, and myriad shades of green exploding from forest floor to tree top. Ours was a meditative stroll, moments barefoot, even a toe dipped into the icy mountain stream, feeling the great mother of us all.
Nine Cent Girl 