The first to bloom were the purple irises in a large clump. From chiffon-shrouded buds, they curled their purple petals open, revealing a hint of glimmering gold. They stood tall, their grape fragrance catching you just as you passed by, causing you to look again, surely that grape scent hadn’t come from them? But it had, and as a slight breeze carried their fragrant symphony delicately forth, the bees buzzed and hummed, enjoying summer’s first taste of song.
Then it was a tight ball of a peony bud, bursting open with its huge, single petals as if proclaiming, “Look at me! I am the first of the peonies, none can surely be as magnificent!” And they may not be, because nothing is as amazing as that first peony exploding into bright bloom in the garden, no matter its color, its size or its type. From atop strong, tall stems, my first-born peony of the summer looks across its counterparts in the garden, crowning itself with a golden center of bright stamens. And nothing quite prepares you for the disappointment as its concerto quickly fades and one by one its petals lose their grip, and flutter to the ground. Their beautiful interlude just a memory, as its dark petals stain the rocks pink with morning dew.
From tight-coiled cones, my white allium were next on stage. Their stems swelled and swelled until one morning, feathery white headdresses emerged. Theirs was a soft minuet formed with the slight scent of an onion and chive-like stalks, waving gently in the breeze. And their small clumps throughout my garden performed long-blooming solos in white. The only white blooms in my garden, they warrant a standing ovation for their brave deviance from the bright colors that take over later in the summer.
Without intermission, an heirloom yellow shrub rose performed a final, golden overture among its deep green, glossy leaves. The morning sun’s light setting their petals aflame. In an instant, they seemed to go from bud to bloom to flailed petals, scattering on the ground below. A brief, yet lovely, sonata of color, fragrance and thorns. Here now, gone tomorrow, nothing but a golden dream blurred sharply in our minds.
There are certain times in life where the work just must stop, the music must be heard and the world’s most beautiful moments must be applauded. The weeding could wait. The watering could wait. These were times to look over the first of my blooming bounty, cherishing the very magnificence of an iridescent, silken petal tempted open by the sun’s warm encouragement. This was a time to watch in wonder as butterflies descended from windy heights, swirling madly, but somehow ending upright atop a pollen-encrusted bloom. This was a time to feel excitement like goosebumps on my arms, for the magical, visual sound that is just beginning, each new bloom an instrument, only just refraining at the final stanza of their prelude.
And as all these instruments of a springtime garden came together, a late spring orchestra culminated in one grand crescendo, diminishing back down with sweet, soft notes . . . promising a symphony yet to come.