And so it goes . . . One day, the old crabapple is bare and forlorn, the next day it wears a multitude of tiny leaves. Almost overnight, the tree is covered with blooms and buzzing with throngs of ecstatic, blissed-out bumbles, bees and wasps.
Along comes a summer breeze, and the crabapple symphony is over, fragile petals drifting through the air like windblown confetti, coming to rest on lawns and hedges and gardens, on fences and birdbaths and pergolas and fountains.
Lilacs in the village are blooming, and when I stepped outside with Beau last evening around ten, the night air was full of their heady fragrance. We leaned against the railing on the veranda and breathed in the glorious perfume.
Suddenly, I remembered a long ago garden I planted with purple heliotrope. The color was gorgeous, and the sweet, cherry-like scent of the blooms pulled in hummingbirds, butterflies, bumbles and bees from miles around. I shall have to plant it again.
How sweet all this is, how fleeting and poignant, and just a little sad.
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