The Juneberries started blooming a week ago. They have such a short-lived but ethereal beauty that it just about breaks my heart even as it soars.
When you have acreage, as we do, you find yourself nicknaming certain parts of your property so you can refer others to it: the secret garden, the duck pond, the BB-shooting tree, the log bench. When the log bench was first set up just inside the woods, at the top of the mown field, you could easily see, through a scrim of saplings, the opposite hillside and our house nestled in the valley. The log bench disintegrated and was replaced by a wooden bench last year, and in the intervening years the undergrowth has gotten thicker and the saplings have gotten taller, to the point that once the trees leafed out, there wasn’t much of a view anymore.
A week ago I took a walk up the hill to see what was blooming (mostly trout lilies) and decided to linger at the bench a minute, to ponder the problem of the obscured view. Unexpectedly, it took my breath away:Many of those saplings were Juneberries, finally achieving blooming size. As you sat on the bench, you were now surrounded by a cloud of delicate blossoms, a fairyland of white petals. It was enchanting.
Is one week of enchantment worth a season’s worth of obscured view? Or can the “wall” of this room be pruned ever so judiciously to preserve the Juneberries and the view? I can see more visits to the bench are in order, to deliberate on this matter.