what a difference a day makes…
there she is, my lung-filling, nose-tickling, olfactory factory. just gearin’ up, she is. those high notes and low notes and dancin’-in-the-middle notes, just starting to chug out her pink-throated chimneys.
she is the thing i’ve been waiting for, tracking like a kook, or some sort of nosey neighbor who can’t keep my eyeballs from peeking over the fence, keeping tabs on all the kitchen drama i can decipher through the flimsy next-door curtains.
we’ve been watching, you and i, and anyone else who tunes in. to this channel called the spring, a serial that won’t stop, despite the weather insults and assorted curveballs.
have you ever been drunk on a smell? inebriated by a perfume? is there some scent somewhere that takes you back, as mere lick of madeleine carried proust?
all i know is for the days when she’s in bloom, when she puts forth like only maybe marilyn monroe has ever done, well, watch out. steer clear. or else you’ll not get one thing done.
you’ll shimmy up beside her. you’ll pretend you’re doing asthma exercises. you’ll breathe so deep, you might be on the verge of bursting alveoli, those little sacs inside your lungs that sometimes are subjected to nasty chemical equations.
just think: those wee balloons devote their days and nights to taking in your world’s unpleasantries–gas burners leaking, cars with mufflers long past time for cleaning, the broccoli burned night after night by some distracted cook.
have those airy soldiers not earned the right, the privilege, the pure honor to spend these sweet few days aswirl in redolence?
my unfurling spice viburnum is not yet in deep full-throttle, so to tell you what you’re missing, i will have to go here on the dregs of my ol’ memory. let’s see, i’d describe her notes as part bubble-bath, part deep-woods, part lady-in-a-crowd-who-makes-you-turn-your-head-and-sniff.
oh, hmm. darn.
well, then, i’ll try again: part-strawberry-jam-on-buttered-toast, part lily-of-the-valley, part south-seas-island. with, oh yes, a dash of nutmeg.
oh, dang, perhaps i’ll simply have to airmail a sprig for every one of you.
or, maybe, by the time she’s exuberantly in her glory, i’ll have figured out how to record her smell, and send it out from these here pages. (note to technical committee: get on it.)
till then, breathe deeply. you just might catch a whiff. and stay tuned. this live broadcast of my burnin’ bush will not pause for weekends. we’ll be back to bring the story as it unfolds.
and, by the way, is it not enchanting, edifying, and plain old smashing, the difference that a day makes?
oh, that we could always measure progress with such sweep-me-off-my-feet, stark distinctions day-by-day.
again, it might well be the wisdom of the spring to remind us that even when it can’t be marked, or clocked, or framed in ever-changing pictures, there is always the possibility that one day might be so different from the next.
so wholly resurrecting.
what lessons does the spring bring you? and can you smell my sweet viburnum yet?