Spring has sprung... the grass is ris...

When I was a kid my Canadian Mum used to greet spring each year with the same nonsense rhyme she learned when she was a tot, said with Brooklyn accent - although I had no idea what that was, or even where that was, apart from looking at the Encyclopedia Britannica at some ancient photo and map. It may as well have been Mars, but the rhyme stuck.

Spring has sprung, the grass is ris

I wonder where da boidies is

Da boid is on da wing! Ain’t that absoid?

I always hoid da wing… was on da boid!

I am reminded of it each spring in Orange, which like the South Waikato where I grew up, has distinct seasons. The change is ever remarkable and the wonder of nature and abundant reminder, of what we really should hold dear. Whether an avid gardener… or a bystander, the sheer force of nature to regenerate is amazing and its inherent fragility clear to see. Beautiful blooms lasting two maybe three days before wilting and browning.

The first beautiful camellias, resplendent flashes of red - some looking almost hibiscus like - and the extraordinary almost translucent petals of the white and lemon. We are fortunate to have a garden filled with some old and hardy shrubs and trees - some of which we still haven’t found a name for - and each year the race begins with the white and lemon camellia at the back door.

Then it’s like every other tree, shrub and plant is watching and waiting for that moment… then they too let loose, the race is on. Shoots, buds, flowers - the tulip tree, the dogwoods, the maples, camellias, hydrangeas -it’s crazy and beautiful and amazing all at once.

Spring has sprung… the grass is ris. .