Magnolia Path

Bruised petals.

Local magnolias, having burst into luxurious bloom, are scattering their waxy petals everywhere. Cherries are shedding petals too, but they float on the wind and don’t settle so snowdrift-heavy. They and the plums fill the air with tiny drifting things–along with the pollen from the evergreens, a fine yellow dust-grit–and the kids and I joke, There’s crap in the air, it must be elves.

The dogs aren’t as interested in the petals as I thought they’d be. It’s corners that interest them, not the carpet. I suppose relatively sharp edges catch and collect scents better. I feel a little bad treading on the petals, though avoiding them is difficult with both dogs so set on taking our usual path. Ritual and habit are their guide rails, their comfort.

The tipping point of spring passed in the middle of a night, unnoticed, an invisible balance shifting. Winter’s fingers are no longer brushing the skin; they’ve fled to wherever the cold goes when it isn’t here. As usual, I thought I’d never see this again–this time because of plague and coup instead of personal disasters. Renewal is always a surprise.

Have a lovely weekend, my dears. Be gentle with yourselves, and each other. Kindness, like spring, is never wasted.