Every April I land in pure and blossoming enchantment every direction I look. Trees barely hold up their rain-weighted branches of all that’s pink, purple and white in flower. Tulips sing their quiet little songs of cheer. Driving down any particular block, I see no less than 30 shades of pale green, composing out of the whole world an impressionistic painting in motion.
Then there’s the other side of April. Between the poetry month status bestowed upon this month, the urge to stick something in the ground quickly, and all manner of opening out and spreading wide the wings of many events, there’s barely time enough to do what I want to do, which is stop doing all else but wandering down one street after another. There are magnolias still exploding their pink boats on north sides of old houses, forsythia towering yellow into green, and crazy-ass parades of cherry blossoms, pear blossoms, and whatever those ballerina-pink delicate flowers are that I see on quiet little trees doing their annual pirouettes. Don’t even get me started on the fuschia-purple redbuds, and especially lilac.
Every April I over-book myself with commitments and then hate myself for it. I should know better: all of this is fleeting, reminding us how fast paradise turns into a string of 95 degree days when we pray for rain and sanity. Every April I make myself a promise, a little like the Passover prayer we say at the end of the seder: “Next year in Jerusalem” (although for me it’s always, “Next year south of the Wakarusa), that next year, nothing but this. Even this year as many moments of watching, breathing and taking in beauty beyond beauty beyond beauty.