Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with snow along the bow,
And stands about the woodland ride,
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now of my threescore years and ten
Twenty will not come again.
And take from seventy Springs a score,
It leaves me only fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty Springs is little room,
About the woodland I will go,
To see the cherry, hung with snow.
Of MY threescore years and ten, threescore five will not come again. That surely gives a person pause when winter seemed to never end then spring burst full bloom upon us. The thought struck me as I inhaled the French lilac scent, I’m not big enough. At least my capacity to truly appreciate is not big enough. When the blooms and the warmth finally came, I was overwhelmed with the idea that, no matter how long I stood there and soaked up spring, I was way too small to absorb even a fraction of the beauty.
My friend Ron gave me these flower photos that he has taken in the past couple of weeks. He took a hundred more, but there isn’t space here to show them all. Next winter, when I come in to warm up from shoveling snow, I’ll open Ron’s flowers on my computer screen and remind myself that spring is an abundant reward for making it through winter.