The capricious spring, turning within minutes it seems from gray skies to heavy rain to hot sun to scattered clouds to cool wind to shower, and so on and so forth. Even on sunny days the air in the shade is chilly, then all of a sudden the weather becomes hot, time again for sandals, but I am advised not to send home my warm winter clothes, it might, probably will, turn cold again, one never knows.
The blossoms are magnificent, the cherry, the lilac, the wisteria, and numerous others I cannot recognize. They are short-lived, the blossoms, fading from red russet to mauve, from pink to beige, from white or lilac to grey, wilting and shedding their petals to be blown on the wind and fill the air like so many snow flakes or confetti floating down to carpet the ground and nestle in the grass among the daisies and dandelions.
The blossoms are magnificent, the cherry, the lilac, the wisteria, and numerous others I cannot recognize. They are short-lived, the blossoms, fading from red russet to mauve, from pink to beige, from white or lilac to grey, wilting and shedding their petals to be blown on the wind and fill the air like so many snow flakes or confetti floating down to carpet the ground and nestle in the grass among the daisies and dandelions.
The majesty of the fresh green sheen of the leaves blooming on the horse chestnut trees outside my office window. The blossoming of the cone shaped flowers, the white petals splashed with dots of lemon yellow and crimson, the turning of the color, and finally the petals falling to the ground, swept by the wind to gather on the asphalt pavement in piles that look like saw dust.
I follow a bud on the tree overhanging the balcony of my room. Day by day I watch and take photos of its unfolding. One morning after the first few days of hot weather I can no longer catch its entirety in the frame. Within two days the branch is covered in leaf. Higher up, closer to the sunlight but farther from the life energy of the grounded roots, the growth of the foliage is slightly slower. Soon the tree will provide cool shade against the evening sun.
On the train to Berlin, the bright yellow of the fields shines brilliant in the sun, against hues of matt green, deeper than I have ever seen. One afternoon Silke takes me to the forest. It is very close and accessible, so I learn, just half an hour walk away. The climb is gentle and after a while the trees open upon one such flowering yellow field and I realize it is not mustard as I had thought, the yellow flower has a distinct shape and an unpleasant scent, rather it is rapeseed. Not far away we find a patch of wild garlic growing beneath the trees, with lush fresh leaves. This is the object of our expedition. We stoop to pluck the leaves from around the stems of the white flowers; crouching on one spot all around there are more and more leaves at arm’s reach. This is so much fun and the harvest so abundant, it is difficult to say enough, which makes me wonder whether the plants mind being picked. Silke says, they must love it, or else they wouldn’t taste so good. Returning with two bags full she stir fries some of the leaves with red pepper to serve with flakes of parmesan over pasta. From what is left we prepare bunches to share with friends, and we chop the rest to freeze in plastic containers. The pungent smell fills my room for days.
