Wednesday, April 13, 2005


Down in the village by the Lake at the foot of the mountain we have our own little cherry tree street - as do most villages that have survived - that is lined with cherry trees now frothing in bloom. To pass under this long arcade while walking home from the station is, as the long-time-ago cherry-tree planters well knew, a living welcome-home blessing, of subtle fragrance and flowery light, both day and evening, lifting the spirit to its natural heights, a spirit one then brings into the home.

As for me, though, who must walk thence up the mountain (when I walk), I get to pass beyond there and along the road that meanders upward along the ridge, so I get to see, through gaps here and there in the curtains of green that line the way (with an occasional cherry tree or magnolia), glimpses of the flowering wild cherry trees that here and there shine among the green that blankets the steep sides of the upper slopes. There is something magical about those wild blossomings, off by themselves in the wild wood beyond reach and for no one to see, the dance nature dances when she's alone...

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