|Butterfly on lilac bush.|
Only a few weeks left until summer and my lilac bushes finally decided to bloom. Out of 14 bushes, only the one with white lilacs had opened up last week. The others remained tightly closed, or looked as if they weren't going to bud at all. When I drove up to the house yesterday evening, all the bushes had open blooms on them. Seemingly overnight both flowers and butterflies exploded outward to worship the sun. After a spring with good water, the bushes are heavy with flowers, a sight for eyes weary of the slow unfolding of spring. I stop on the way in the house to inhale the aroma of lilacs. The purple lilacs crisp and refreshing, the pale purple a bit faded with grassy undertones, the white lilacs a deep and intoxicating scent that sears itself into my brain.
In the rest of the yard, the cottonless cottonwood looked dire, no buds we could see last week. Had it been winter killed? Suddenly yesterday I saw leaves everywhere. big enough to hide the little birds that sang to me in the morning. I had given up on Mother Nature, but she had not given up on me. Little by little late spring blooms unfold, and baby animals cavort in green pastures. I store up the sights and sounds - and smells - for the days when inevitably the landscape grows dry, colors fade to olive and brown, and the predominate smell is that of wildfire on the breeze. I take some time each day to step outside and devour the sights and smells. I snap pictures with my phone but that isn't enough to preserve the season. Mother Nature moves forward, whether I like it or not. My brain is the greatest recorder of the seasons, and I try and fill every nook and cranny so I can remember the pollen dusted wings of a Monarch butterfly, the contented buzz of a bumblebee at work, and the heavenly scent of lilacs wrapped around me like a spring shawl. My fickle heart already turns toward summer, and wonders what sights, smells and sounds will trickle inward, ready to be preserved for the white page of winter.