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On the last day of July, I revisited my friends in the Arb. On the slowly ascending and descending hills over a lush valley, the patience of roses of Sharon is paid off, even their massive leaves can't hide their showy flowers in purple color; Hydrangeas are bending earthward, this time crushed not by snow fall but by their own flower heads; The silverberry branches are fully loaded with clustered "mini-apples"; The snowberries, with little pink flowers, look so pure and delicate that I can't bear or dare touching them; The gooseberries, however, are unexpectedly bold, shooting out spikes from their reddish finger-nail sized fruits to protect their hard labor (I have to leave them alone as well); And the lilacs, though long past their blooming season, are flourishing in verdure. Only the Burton Tower has to shy away for a while behind giant canopies of black walnuts, red oaks and yellow woods. So everybody has survived the cruelness of April. I have also recovered from terrible coughing, rejuvenated by a gentle summer, up for whatever comes with August: I already see challenges arising and mounting from that apple tree whose fruits are still small and green. |
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