A Concerto in Three Movements

The giant snow-white gumdrops atop the Bradford pear trees, lining a stretch of freeway as if welcoming me into some rich estate
The pink popcorn of cherry blossoms, clustered along the spindly limbs of the tree outside my dining room window
The dogwood, draped in ecru doily lace, as if Nana
had been tatting all winter long in her rocker by the fire
The wisteria, climbing up to string themselves, like lavender pearls, round the necks of unsuspecting stately pines

These are the voices, singing opera a cappella, captivating the soul with beauty and hues that vary from tree to tree.

All singing in a steady crescendo -
In cadences, staggering their verses week by week

And the flowers!…Crocuses, daffodils, irises, tulips, lilies,
Like little flutes, trilling their joyful contribution
in this symphony of praise
to the Composer and Conductor of this piece entitled "Spring"

Their playful beginnings are taken over by the trumpets.
The blossoms give up their center stage, as the fresh green forces
them from their nests among the branches,
raining color on the carpet below.

And the Summer blasts lusty strength
as the new growth takes over
Waking us up if spring fever has lulled us to sleep

There is work to do on the ground
as the gardens bring us food in abundance.
The trees become huge umbrellas, relieving us
from the glaring sun’s oppression,
providing the sturdy columns for our hammock strings.
And under the shelter of their foliage we sip our cold
tea and read our books, and rest after our outdoor labor.

Then harvest comes, like drums,
as the fresh fruit falls to the ground,
Heavy and hearty, juicy and satisfying,
the prophecy of the blossoms and the
leaves - fulfilled,
ending the page in perfect harmony.

We start to guess that the concert is coming to an end. People are folding their programs and gathering their coats and hats.

But the Autumn section surprises and delights us as well,
Like a rich dessert at the end of a satisfying meal
The maples and oaks lead the strings, a kaleidoscope of color,
lighting a fire in the forest with orange, and yellow, and red.

The last violin plays, and there is an eerie silence before we burst forth in applause to the Maestro of this magnificent piece.

The musicians exit the stage, leaving only their folding chairs. We stare wistfully at the bare branches outside our kitchen windows.
But the memories linger, and we remind ourselves that next year’s performance will be just as spectacular –maybe more so,
if we plant another tree or two
or bury a few more bulbs before it’s too late.

We count the days.

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I dedicate this piece to my mother, Alice Bishop, as she remembers my father today on their anniversary, and the many years they enjoyed together as husband and wife. They were the oaks that nurtured me, and I am so grateful for their tender guidance.
Mom, your own children are raising a little forest - 12 at last count. Keep praying that each one grows up to be an oak of righteousness.