Sorry about that. I completely did not mean to neglect this little corner
again! Hopefully with the advent of summer I will have more time to just sit down and write.
In the interim between the last post and this one, spring has finally happened. It has been an unusually cold one -- so much so that I was somewhat startled when I went to change the calendar and saw that it was already June!
But it is, and June means birds in the mornings and in the dusky evening, and the sun rising earlier than me (such a welcome change, to be able to sleep past the sunrise and still get to school on time), and the end of most blooming things. I apologise that most of the photos are somewhat out-of-date; I had time to photograph last week, making use of the lovely weather, and this week I finally carved some time out to write.
The rhododendron sisters are done blooming. They were gorgeous while they lasted, bright pinks in the dismal grey mornings with the ever-present drizzle.
And the lillies-of-the-valley have started. They make me smile, these little delicate white blossoms. They look like basins the fairies gather dewdrops in to wash their faces.
Puck the dogwood is almost done. He's mostly green, with a few faded blossoms left at the top, like a tired crown.
But Ophelia, my lovely ruffled iris, has just begun. In fact, since I took this photo she's just completely burst into bloom - this morning she had three flowers open. I'll try to get a few more pictures tomorrow, because she is beautiful.
Is it strange that I name things? Inatimate objects? I don't know. And I don't really care, because it's so much nicer to call the little tree-bush in the front "Tatiana" than it is to call it "the little tree-bush". Because the flowers, the trees - they have their own personalities. You can find them, if you're willing to just sit in the sun and let it all wash over you.
There's Puck, the dogwood - he's getting older, but still blooms every year. Cheerful, hardworking. Or Tatiana - young, small, her flowers are little delicate white things. She sprung up from the stump of the old cherry tree, and she persisted through a (very) wet spell and a (very) dry spell and a severe pruning and still is the wild spirit she was in the beginning.
Or Desdemona, my first real plant of my own. A sweet little African violet in a shiny white pot, she came back from near-death multiple times after I, with my forgetful little fifth-grade mind, did not water her for weeks and weeks and in one memorable instance, over a month. She's gone now though. I suppose, with a name like that, it was inevitable.
I feel as though it's time to return the white pot onto my desk, with a new tenant. Perhaps after finals are done, I will cycle over to the grocery and pick out a flower.
I'm thinking of a pansy named George.
It was beautiful, especially if one chose to ignore the tiny white things buzzing down from the sky and the bitter wind and focused instead on the first crocus (which I didn't get a picture of. It was very purple) and the budding branches and the tiny flowers overhead.
There was a tree completely covered in shoes in front of one of the frats. 
