Buds

Sometimes, even when the snow is still on the ground, I can go out in the yard and look at the branches of trees and shrubs and find little tiny buds.  I’ll hold the branch in my hand, gently between my forefinger and thumb, and look closely to see if they are there.  This ritual begins in late winter every year, and I know the majority of the trees and shrubs in the yard as if they are old friends.

The buds begin as barely a blip on the surface of the branch.  As my anticipation of a bloom grows, so does the bud.  Weeks pass and I check every plant.  The buds grow larger and larger until I can see the beginnings of the flowers that will soon come forth.

Travelling south this weekend I noticed that the blooms are further along as I proceed until, reaching South Georgia, some of the trees are in full bloom.  The redbud trees are covered in pink and lavender.  Azaleas are full of bounteous color.  Apple and pear trees are covered in white.  And maple trees have reddened branch tips and leaf buds.

Very soon the procession will begin at home.  First the winter jasmine.  Then the forsythia.  Then redbuds and flowering fruit trees like apple, pear and peach.  Then the green leaves of maple and birch and oak.  The flowers have already begun.  Daffodils.  Tulips.  Iris.  And the grass will soon return to green, reawakened from it’s brown in dormancy.

I know it’s all coming because I see the yellow dust.  The pollen that comes from the blooms and chokes the sky with its yellow fog.  It coats the car, and the house.  And everything else that stands still outside.  Noses run and eyes water.  Soon, everything will be green.  And beautiful.  Passing seasons.  Jut like last year. And next year.

That’s part of my story.  What’s yours?  www.personalhistorywriter.com

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