The spring's cold dawning
Brings no coating snow to paint
It's the time of year when the trees flower. This tree is not in our yard. We have a camellia, which is dropping fleshy pink blossoms onto the grass. Where they rot and turn into a pile of decomposing brown necrotic detritus. With slugs on them. Oh wait, that's not quite right; some of them turn brown and rot before they flop off of the camellia bush.
I wouldn't mind so much if the blooms were smaller and white. The pink makes the blooms look like toiletry items from my grandmother's boudoir. Or body parts. Of course, Mark loves the camellia because it's an evergreen, and says disparaging things about the roses and the irises looking like dead sticks four fifths of the year.