Quince

The cherry blossoms of Japan are alluring especially in movies showing their delicate dance of twirling and falling. Washington DC also attracts many to their cherry blossom rite of spring; white-pink petals gracing the weather wind currents, often heavy with rain, or icy droplets, making early mush of spring's bridal aisle. Delicate are cherry blossoms, as delicate as the woman or child we keep magically hidden. Hope of such beauty lies waiting to come out, for the right temperature, time, when PERFECT is the word. And, the word does not come; it falls upon cement in perfect pink, the color of new born lips, and gets crushed by the soles of good men and women going to work.

I love the spring quince bush in my backyard. It was planted more than 50 years ago.  From my window, I see all its beauty. The color of quince, the vibrant color that is only quince; a rich, transparent salmon, flowering in early coolness, with pollen centers the likes of slender jonquils begging for bees. Depending on the time of day, I see the same bush differently. Shadows walk across the bush at mid morning and late afternoon; big bear paws of dark hover over my delicate bush flowers, protecting the petals from too much light. Then, the too much light of noon lingers for hours while my bush soaks in enough of heat light to preserve color into another cool or colder night.