Every year on February 1, since the seventies, I have made a point if finding a jonquil in bloom. I usually could count on the precocious ones in Mrs. Clara Packer's Yard directly across the street from McHenry School. If these were layabeds on any particular first day of February I could drive out the Rockmart Road past Probate Judge Harry Johnson's home where he grew just about every variety of daffodil extant.
On one of the darkest days of my life, January 20, 2017, mourning in America was omnipresent. Sheila and I, after absorbing the shock of a child taking the reins of our unitary executive and parading his insecurities to the world, we stiffened our backs and trundled off to Rome Little Theatre for a second look at Clybourne Park. That gritty reminder of challenges and progress in America was strangely reassuring.
Arriving home the lights of the Toyota caught a bit of yellow on the front lawn as I wheeled into the drive. Sheila was startled by my sudden stop then reversal of the vehicle to illuminate the yellow buds... in the midst of literal and figurative winter: not open yet but, oh, buds!
Yesterday 2.9 million buds bloomed in more than 633 cities and towns across this land, proclaiming winter may stay awhile, blooms may be crusted in ice or snow occasionally in the days to come, but as surely as the gravitational forces of the sun will pull our planet around its orbit, spring is coming.
No comments:
Post a Comment