When I arose this morning this false or early spring had me paranoid that my trees wouldn’t really bloom. All this warm air, this feeling of impending summer with no green life made me worry, feel as if the great climactic climate change had come and gone without my noticing, and the apocalypse is like a sinking ship on autopilot. All seems normal, there are no shouts of panic and terror, there is no change, the course remains until the whole thing disappears beneath.
My infections are waning, my ribs are mending. It still hurts when I cough. I haven’t tried laughing. The biggest improvement was yesterday when I began the antibiotics, the greatest relief when I woke this morning without feeling sealed in a cocoon. Since, I’ve ebbed and flowed. I managed to do a few things today but have felt generally terrible since. An allergy to productivity, perhaps.
We walked for the sake of it and I spent my time spotting buds and energetic birds. The maples have split their buds into red wreath-like flowers. The clover and vetch have opened purple, pale, and blue. Two of my irises have bloomed. The smallest of my trees have yet to open, but some have grown new buds. Most are still soft and pliable, safe from the limb-stiffness denoting rigor mortis.
In a few more weeks it’ll be spring proper. I’ll be able to move out from the nursery basement and into the plain air of the backyard. For now, the buds and the walks will suffice.