I finally flew up to New York to see "Flowers, Follies". (It was better than I had guessed from photos, and I was able to really see the work of the artists I shared the room with, how intimate and complex and beautiful their pieces are up close). I moved south almost twelve years ago, and I've been back four or five times, but I've forgotten the subtleties, the details of early Long Island spring. My Florida springs are sharp and dry, as if everything has become over-focused - imagine wearing glasses that are a little too strong. And the leaves drop. It's still backwards to me. I think that for the rest of my life seasons will be measured by northeast's normal.
There was so much gray, and the sharp black branches of still-bare trees, all that scratchiness and crunch left over from winter. And then, like they were trying to teach you yellow for the first time, shocks of forsythia.
And daffodils, a little grimy from rain, illogically bright.
Lichens blurring the tree trunks.
The more expected pink blossoms, hanging like bells.
And the least expected: blues, low down, weighing the rain.
I've missed them.