Dull day in the knobs, leaden sky and intermittent rain, high wind that makes the pines sing the saddest songs in their repertoire. Even the peepers sound mournful. Down at the neighbors’ the crocuses are fading and the Bradford pears loom like ghosts.
The other day, though, while Willard and I were out in town, we passed a yard that has forsythia down one side and across the back, in full riotous bloom. That cheerful yellow reminded me of this painting by Mark Shasha (b. 1961); I found it last year while looking for an illustration for a blog about Robert Frost’s poem “Nothing Gold Can Stay”, and it’s become a favorite.
This yellow won’t stay for long; we have ahead of us those cold snaps knobites and hillbillies call “dogwood winter” and “the Easter squall”, during which temps plummet and we can and have had snow; the forsythia won’t survive the chill. For now, though, it brightens this day with no sun.