We're back in Sacramento. Got to our house at twelve midnight, Friday night -- 26 hours after we left the hotel in Santiago for the nearby airport. Our dog was delirious to see us, and likewise. But we were soooo tired. Fell into bed and left unpacking for the week-end.
When we left for Spain, Sacramento was trying to have spring in spite of wet, rainy days. And in our absence, friends tell us, April was cold, cold, cold. But, walking around Midtown yesterday, I was delighted by all the flowers. Right in our backyard the azaleas and roses are billows and ruffles of color. Our neighbor's irises are splashes of purple, like Van Gogh's famous painting. Several people in Midtown have planted yellow broom! (Ah, after rhapsodizing over the Spanish broom, it was like seeing an old friend.) Geraniums brighten roundabouts and doorsteps. Gebera daisies in all shades dot garden patches. Lantana and verbena spread in every hue. Ginko trees have opened their fan-shaped leaves, and branches of elms and sycamores form green tunnels over the streets.
Walking our dog, I had to visit my two favorite bookstores to browse flowers of another sort, flowers of the spirit. For what is a book, if not the burgeoning of someone's soul? I picture authors through the ages musing with pen and parchment or, more recently, hunched over their computer keyboards, quietly blooming. Book shops and libraries to me are gardens of the heart. The riches beckon from shelf after shelf.
Naturally I couldn't leave without a flower or two.