Just a brief post this evening, my dears, so you have a glimpse of our yard, house sky and delicate pink cherry blossoms cast against the golden sky just before sunset. We planted this ornamental cherry tree on a whim about 5 years ago, knowing it would struggle to get enough early spring light to birth its blossoms. We are snuggled for better or worse under water oaks and live oaks, draped with wisps, touches, bunches and even gigantic armloads of grey beards of Spanish mosss. The oaks and the moss are beautiful, of course, but they have a direct impact on what will (or can) grow here. Last year, the cherry tree spit in our eyes, more or less, producing a listless bloom or two and then going back to sleep. This year, perhaps because of the long, chilly spring to which I and Ms. Moon and other have alluded here in the Southeast, it has surprised us with winsome blossoms and a whole new attitude: Look! We're lovely! We're almost as nice as Washington or Tokyo! Don't you love us?
I must admit that we do. So tomorrow we're off to the beach (and you know what THAT means, people...a blog post full of fossils and shells and eccentric tales) but for this evening here are a couple of pictures of the quietly gorgeous cherry tree.
Look up, and see the warm butter colored sky highlighting the pink. Imagine the lemon tree right next door to the cherry blossoms. Soon you'll be seeing photos of the pink-edged, waxy white flowers of the lemon tree, with lazy bumblebees humming from flower to flower, all of it still set against the slightly embarrassing excess of the azaleas, at least for a few days more. The low tide calls Rod and me; we know it's not as low a tide as we always hope for, but it does come at noontime. We'll pack a lunch in our backpack, take one or two of the dogs and walk for a mile or two. And then we'll share the view with you. It's a fine thing to look forward to the sharing of those little views of the great ocean and the small magic that happens there every day. For now the magic is in the small pink blossoms and flowers, holding their own under the strong oaks, shielded in patches by the threads of silvery Spanish moss in the treetops.