Suffering through a national heat wave, it's hard to believe Boston was covered in snow six months ago. Beacon Hill was a winter wonderland and the suburbs were like a gingerbread village richly lathered in creamy, white frosting.
Sadly, fallen snow can't remain pure. It's pale fragility is worn by wear and salt and transformed into a bruised slush while naked, anorexic trees shiver in the arctic air. After the hot chocolate, cheery sweaters, and ice skating in the park, the novelty of winter fades sooner than it exits.
And then, the tears, or the rain, fall and the snow starts to melt away. The ground breaks open. The grass grows. The flowers bud. The trees are cloaked in green. Birds sing.
It's also the time of year of my favorite flower, the tulip. The tulip is demure as the orchid is exotic. Both delicate and a revolution of color. Unlike the sturdy stock of the lush, often fragrant petals of the velvety rose. Floral beauty is brief as jewels are eternal.
Then summer comes like lovers' hot breath. Flowers make way for ripe fruit bursting with sweetness.
And summer salads when one is feeling hot rather than haute.
But when the heat is even too unbearable for that, I desire brightly-bound books since they do not wilt nor rot but fray from love.
This is my heat wave musings as I rummage through boxes, sort hangers, and organize my clothes in size-specific racks for my sale. Photos pending.
Cheers,
Kitty
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