Tenaciousness and Fragility
The first time Geraldine Mills came to see my landscape, a vibrant rose-colored shrub lined the walkway to our house that October. I had no name for it so she named it in a poem. I have since found out possible names which include burning bush, winged euonymous, and spindle tree. My favorite is winged euonymous which sounds a lot like anonymous. I like the idea of anonymous rose-colored wings. Last March, the weather was chilly and cloud-covered. Today, it felt like sunny July. Even the insects are confused. Ants and mosquitos have come out of hiding. Crocuses and daffodils decorate front yards as if frost was nowhere in their future. I have lived in New England long enough to know that one can fall asleep to summer-like breezes only to awaken to winter chill. Still, there’s something unsettling about a winter that never caused the roadways to crack or the air to smell like an impending snowstorm. Ask someone from Florida what snow smells like and they will probably think you’re a little touched in the head but it really does have a smell. It’s a combination of cold and clean. Sheer loveliness the first time. I can still summon up the excitement I felt as a child when I knew snow would interrupt routine. There’s nothing I like better than an unexpected interruption where suddenly time spreads out in front of me and I can wrap myself in a blanket and read a good book. Now that spring has arrived, the neighborhood is buzzing with people walking dogs, cleaning out gardens, fixing gutters. The longer days fold into leisurely evenings on porches and in backyards. There are words for every season. The smell of winter, winged euonymous with blushing leaves, an awakening: two hawks mating overhead on our evening walk, and the earthworms aerating the soil for basil, hyacinth, tomatoes, day lilies. Time seems to speed up in the springtime and I find myself longing to slow down, savor mud smells and the rustle of chipmunk in the brush. Instead I record what I can, always remembering that imagination holds all the senses and seasons.
Literary Imaginings by Lisa C. Taylor 