falling flowers

At my nephew’s wedding yesterday a pair of double-flowering almond standards bookended the head table.  As the night wore on, it became a better and better joke to give the trunks a nudge and send tiny pink petals fluttering into updos, décolletage and soup plates.

The steady rain has made short work of the neighborhood trees’ springtime regalia.  The shed roof looks snowed-upon, and our street is slick with chartreuse linden-flower paste.  If it weren’t so damp it would be positively festive.

Where did confetti originate?  It must have been blossoms, right?  Orchard weddings in Europe chock-full of pathetic fallacy when a breeze struck up: the trees are showering us with nuptial blessings!

Most of the flowers yesterday—bouquets, boutonnieres, corsages—were silk.  This is thrifty and, if you’re contemplating future hatbands or souvenir shadow-boxes,  far-thinking.  But something stood out about those trembling almonds denuding themselves across our shoulders…

Spring’s whole romance is its brevity.  You wear your wedding dress only once; the cake teeters only long enough to be cut.  What you’re doing, getting married, is not temporary of course.  Like all the frenetic birds & bees,  you’re putting down roots, creating longevity from a moment.  But you get there—you should get there, if the trees are any example–via a gorgeous, carnivalesque bacchanal of display and wastage, all designed to litter the lawn by morning.

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