Ahhh, spring here in the East. The cherry trees have blossomed. The fragile white petals of the dogwood delight the senses. And the azaleas are in bountiful bloom, resplendent in pink and red. Every azalea, that is, except mine.
Mine are still mulling over the whole idea of blooming. Do we really want to come out there? It's cold and wet. Maybe we'll just stay tucked in here where it's nice and warm and dry.
And so while everyone else's bushes and trees are flowering, mine are in a state of perpetual budding. I have threatened to replace them with hydrangeas, but this has not been enough to coax them from their warm, dry place. I tell them that blooming is not optional. They just close their little buds tighter as if to ward off my voice, like a teenager who refuses to get out of bed.
And who can blame them? It has been gloomy and raining here for the past six months, it seems. It would not surprise me in the least to receive some divine instructions for building an ark.
That is the problem with spring. Spring promises a great many things -- warmer days, sunshine, buds and blossoms and blooms, green grass, full trees -- but it has a tendency to not deliver on these things. Oh, the grass is green, all right -- how could it be anything else with all this rain? But spring teases with a day or two of sunshiny bliss, then retreats somewhere far away, like Fuji. At least with winter, you know what to expect. Winter doesn't promise anything it can't deliver.
And so the azaleas happily sleep away most of the spring. Who knows if they will decide to bloom this year? But I do have a bumper crop of mushrooms.
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