My front yard is like an over-lit neon sign at the moment, shamelessly and incessantly shouting out "pollinate me! Pollinate me!"
Honestly. I want to move in to the pink dogwood tree. I want to live there, among those flat-petaled blossoms. I want to feel them on my face, my arms, all over and at all times of the day and night. And when the wind picks up, like it did today, a fierce April wind with a razor-chill to it, I want to hang on like everything hinges on the hanging-on, because in a way, everything really does hinge on this.