A Saturday spring evening when the scent of jonquils is just barely in the air. I can’t tell if it’s really there, or if I just really want it to be. And so I squat down and bring a bloom to my nose, inhaling the delicate aroma, faintly sweet with a sort of tangy and tart base. I can’t describe it other than it smells like spring – impossible to capture or duplicate, and maybe that’s for the best. If they bloomed every day, and were commonplace at the florist, the way that they conjure spring would be blunted.
Tomorrow the rains will arrive, as much a part of spring as they are cherished by the garden. If they get too rough, I’ll pick a few, as I did the ones seen here. Making it this far deserves some pampering, especially when they’re this close to the finish line.
