Down a little street never taken before, there sat rows of stones and bones and explosions of flowers and bird songs. A tiny forest clearing with sweet air and honeyed light tucked away in a city nook with walls on all sides.
Blackbirds, crows, and pigeons sat starkly in flowered branches where the petals were thicker than snow. I said that if I were a bird I would pass my Aprils in that delight as well. And I spent too long there anyway, my face pressed into flowers, or ducking in between the tombstones, and in standing very still, watching the little showers of petals.
All week I have been dreaming with the flowers, as I passed by them in gardens and hanging from window boxes, all their shades of blue, all their vibrant reds and purples. But a tree like this surrounds you, pours its magic all over sky and earth.
And it is hard to force one's steps back towards home. How dull to be shut up inside the same place where the long dark days of winter sat while the wind moaned and complained as it flew past the chimney.
So much better to lay out on the grass in the park while little dogs run by, or watch a steam train pull in at the station, surrounded by clouds of old men with cameras. To wander aimlessly until you come to the secret, shady places where ferns unfurl their fronds at that too-quick and too-slow pace that plants use to disguise their movements.
You might even find yourself in a part of town where the houses become castle-like and the people avert their eyes quickly. There will be the odd gargoyle up near the eaves, and behind the back garden walls there is an entire ravine locked away for the private pleasures of others. Only, the sounds of the water rushing and the extra-abundant bird songs can not be locked away so neatly.
We went there specifically to meet with a tree that we met in the pink gloaming of another day. It peers down from a front garden, from another world.
A little ways on, there stands a house where a lone fishing rod stands with its line spread out across the sky. At the end of the line is a kite in the shape of a bird.
Another tiny thing to wonder at on the way home, past the tulips and through the streets, and finally up the stairs to our door. I think the only remedy for an old, wintry, granite house is to fill your mind with all the flowers and green of a spring day, so that you can fill the house with dreams like bouquets.