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In my part of the country, my part of the state, the flowering trees rage into spring and early summer in generous blankets of color, always a welcome sight after the uniform overcast of winter.  But this spring and early summer, the roses have it.  Our rash of warm and sunny days has inspired extensive blooming; sprays of blossoms taller than a man hang over fences or climb garden walls.  My garden’s small contribution has expanded to four varieties and all of them are very happily opening and opening as if that is what they were meant to do.

For myself, this extra ration of sun so early in the season has spurred me on unexpectedly. I fling myself pell-mell into a full bouquet of expanding projects, eat late, and get to sleep even later, wondering where the time went.  I know this feeling well.  I remember the power surge of the summer light when I lived in the far north, all that yang energy coursing though my veins like a drug I couldn’t get enough of.  And, as the consecutive winters took their toll, the contrast between “dormancy” and “awake” grew even greater.  I  moved to the northwest to find some moderation, but not this season.  The roses are singing and I hum along in harmony; I am fluent in rose.

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