So much appears in spring, it seems counter intuitive to think of it as a season of disappearance. Trees are full of blossoms, from the silky petals of magnolias to the rows of white cherries that line roadways and sidewalks. The buds of the maple in my yard are like small flowers, red bleeding in the veins of tiny green leaves. The crowns of hardwoods on the hills to the south soften as rose buds break open to the chartreuse of new growth.
David and I went for a hike yesterday and the branches of bushes and trees were covered with specks of leaves, a slight fuzzing of the views we could still catch as we climbed. By the time we walk that trail again, the views will be gone. A riot of leaves will have filled in all the spaces that let in some distance, and there will be walls of green wherever we look.
Sitting on the back deck in morning sun, we can still see the neighbors’ yards and the road on the other side of the brook. Soon the apple trees beyond the garden beds will fill in and the trees along the brook will make a privacy fence for our back yard. The road and neighbors’ yards will disappear, and so will we.
Like everything, spring is a paradox. The green world expands, and our views constrict. As I say in one of my poems, that’s “the nature of nature.”