Every year about this time I start getting antsy for spring. The paperwhites I forced earlier have long since spent and withered their blossoms away. The few scant hyacinths I have in water are just beginning to break bud, and a trio of amaryllis I got on clearance haven’t even been planted yet. The lull merited this emergency post of supermarket flowers to see us through the weekend with a bit of emotional joy.
I don’t know if we’ll make it to the New England Flower Show this year, or if it’s even still a thing. I also doubt this year will mark our pilgrimage to Longwood Gardens and their Himalayan blue poppy display, as we’re more intent on making it to Savannah before the spring comes. That means posts like this, and visits to local greenhouses, will have to suffice.
Fortunately, a flower, no matter where it blooms or how it’s procured, always manages to make an impression. It is a balm on the winter-weary soul, a comfort for cold-weather agitation. Even the mere notion of a bloom, such as in this otherwise empty blog post, supplies the senses with something like hope. Spring will come again, and the land will be lush and green and vibrant.
A happy bloom passes the day.
