Documents: Gardening From: Gardening From West Coast:

by Crystal Trojek
April 14, 2013

A little white feather surged upward like a rising star, and then twirled and danced like notes of music on a page until it softly rested amongst the branches of the forsythia. The forsythia had struck each rod of gold two days before. Each brilliant bush of gold will light the paths for the returning robins, and later the bright green leaves will mark the trail for hummingbirds and later the orioles as they find their way home for the spring once again. The older forsythia, perhaps a hundred years’ snows older, is of the hardiest strains. They grow with unbridled strength until the stems are upon each other and the little flowers fail, so one must cut ruthlessly to force the little flowers to appear in masses.

Sometimes, the snow still sprinkles each golden stem. The flurries whiten the ground, filling each corner and crevice, but the forsythia flowers nod and choose to ignore the coolness of the late spring storms. The sun will rise tomorrow, and quickly drive away the snow, revealing as it should the timeless breath of spring converting the landscape once more. On the ground below, King Alfred still rules the garden paths, along with Jack Snipe, Tete a Tete, Thalia, Ice Follies and many more timeless friends. It is the time of year to dwell on immortality, like all the types of daffodils that sway and dip below the forsythia. Their many shades of yellow, like the lengthening days of sunshine, seem to brighten as the days of spring pass by.

How can yellow be so fearless when icy fingers twist and weave an icy shroud on moonless nights to suffocate each flower? The sun peers over the horizon and quickly sweeps away each frosted gown on every stem. Again and again each morning the sun battles until the earth has warmed, and every flower born at dawn of spring draws quiet breath. Each stem stretches its petal face toward the sun and whispers “Thank you”, while passersby can only stop and stare at every royal player. The feeble minds of mortals can only wonder why each flower strikes so quickly back at every freezing morning, except to know that undying strength in root and stem can only be divine.

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