Blossoms

I walked to Smith Street to look for a new pot to replace one that has cracked on the terrace - a large one beside the door, that houses my big, big lily, Silk Road, as well as the fennel that has come up three years straight, overwintering in the shelter of the building, plus whatever else seasonal I like; basil, perhaps.

At Tony's Hardware Tony was sitting on a box on the floor studying a catalogue. What pots you need this summer? he asked. He was ordering new stock. I chose my 16" terra cotta from out back, got a sweet discount, and bought two neon orange plastic buckets for $6 each, for the roof farm, a trowel and another pair of gloves. I looked at the seeds but held back. But he has what you need if you'd like to start some...

I lugged the heavy pot home, clasped to my chest, but set it down when I saw this tree. Another Prunus subhirtella, but so much happier than the specimen at Borough Hall. A symphony in the highstrung sunlight under a sky of shattering blue. I photographed it in the fall, too.

When I was little the word blossom meant only the flowers of fruit trees to me. Only fruit tree blossom looks like a blossom, petals light as living tissue paper, each as delicate and temporary as the next breeze. They are not flowers. They are blossoms.

Does Paul Roux Street in Bloemfontein still blossom in the spring, red, white, red white, as the ornamental peach trees were planted when I was small? I have just realized that my terrace is painted the hot pink-red of those impossibly frilled, fat, louche alternately red and white trees.