Our lily of the valley is still just brandy-snap curls of green leaf pushing through the earth, but Victor's is in a sunny spot by the concrete wall of his barn, and is flowering already, there'll be plenty for Fête de Travail.
I nipped off a sprig and threaded it through the eyelet at the neck of my t-shirt; the perfume accompanied my walk, and grew headier as it wilted. I still have the dry brown remains, and they still smell beautiful. How can something so small generate so much scent?
How can you describe scent? How can you write about the wonder, the shock of spring flowers, without triteness? What about
'why is it that the Spring flowers seem like bits of the world refocusing when the brain wakes from an anaesthetic?'
And while we're on sensory, nay, sensual, delights, I can't get over this one from Michelle at Peony Moon. There's all manner of wondrous verse to be found all over, I know, but every now and then something really hits the spot, and this is a feast. I challenge you to read it without your mouth watering. (Tarantella, just before it, is marvellous too.)