On a gravel road about 5 miles from here, in the fall, there is a patch of woods that once owned me. My bus ride took me by that spot for much of my childhood and I never tired of it. If I became distracted and didn't see it, I felt cheated. The house sitting on the edge of the treeline was my house; I imagined that I would live there, rooms lit by the glow of hickory leaves in some fantastic, perpetual October.
Fall was my favorite season, but where I live now, Spring makes her case. She presents warmth, daffodils, trees coming into bud, places along my everyday path that feel like home.
I'm not a photographer. I struggle to capture what I see: the red reeds along the roadside giving way to new growth; the willows dripping yellow-green; the tangled, glowing forsythia; grey branches surrounded by wisps of peach and orange, as if the trees themselves are tatting.
In the battle of the best season, for today, Spring wins.
3 weeks ago