Green! grass in places, pansies around the hotel looking perky, some daffodils, redbud trees here and there, glimpses of vibrant forsythia, and all along the roads and throughout the ubiquitous 'gracious-living' developments, great white globular Bradford pear trees shining forth under the palpably warm rays of the sun: what spring will be like here--one day. Shorts and T-shirt weather as we labored to clean up the my sister in law's house for sale.
As we descended into Boston, my window-seat co-passenger pushed up the blinds on to another planet, white ground, white snow in the air, grey water and sky. Had I come to a moon of Saturn, some satellite with its own chemistry, its own special physics? Yet this was you, my city, my dear city, still under the reign of the Ice Queen. I felt a pang for your long siege, not a Leningrad, trees all cut for firewood, all animals ravenously consumed, but still a stricture.
But when the shuttle dropped me in Copley Square, I could see people walking briskly about undeterred by the snow. Later, telling the story of my trip over pizza at the Dogwood Cafe, I looked around at families, couples, big boisterous parties unconcerned by the weather. Today, as the wind blew gusty and strong, business carried on as usual. Nobody is languishing. When the weather gets warmer, it will meet us already in motion.
My poor, truncated pear, stripped of its leaves last May by worms, has draggled, trailing branches broken by the weight of snow. Still Mr and Mrs Cardinal are back on the hunt in the bare patches under my bushes. The light lasts longer and meteorological Spring is not thundering, but cantering our way.
As we descended into Boston, my window-seat co-passenger pushed up the blinds on to another planet, white ground, white snow in the air, grey water and sky. Had I come to a moon of Saturn, some satellite with its own chemistry, its own special physics? Yet this was you, my city, my dear city, still under the reign of the Ice Queen. I felt a pang for your long siege, not a Leningrad, trees all cut for firewood, all animals ravenously consumed, but still a stricture.
But when the shuttle dropped me in Copley Square, I could see people walking briskly about undeterred by the snow. Later, telling the story of my trip over pizza at the Dogwood Cafe, I looked around at families, couples, big boisterous parties unconcerned by the weather. Today, as the wind blew gusty and strong, business carried on as usual. Nobody is languishing. When the weather gets warmer, it will meet us already in motion.
My poor, truncated pear, stripped of its leaves last May by worms, has draggled, trailing branches broken by the weight of snow. Still Mr and Mrs Cardinal are back on the hunt in the bare patches under my bushes. The light lasts longer and meteorological Spring is not thundering, but cantering our way.
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