It’s been a dark, wet spring. The earth is a soggy mess, water running everywhere, and last year’s leaves are matted on the hillsides. Among the brown grasses flattened by winter’s snow, only a smattering of new green grasses can be seen. So the pasqueflowers are almost the only color in this drab landscape.
But they are not showy, like the columbine and purple penstemon that will appear in June. You have to search for them, let your eyes rake the ground because they like to keep low, out of the strong winds and cold nights. Already they’ve taken their first slam after a foot of snow fell since they first bloomed about two weeks ago. But these first flowers of the year rose up again, somewhat bruised. One in my yard had its stem broken by the heavy snow, yet it’s still blooming.
Last week, wind gusts of 60-70 mph raked the land with snow blowing horizontally. Anything that could hide from the winds, like chipmunks and birds, did so. Strong pine trees tossed and turned, and many couldn’t withstand the force. A reported microburst a mile away laid down dozens of trees, shut down the power and phone service for more than 16 hours. One nearby neighbor lost at least 24 trees on their property.
I stayed inside the cabin, waiting for the roof to blow off, and the next morning I nervously checked on the pasqueflowers in my yard. I found them bowed but not beaten. Some were encased in frost, but they hadn’t given up, and when the sun came out, they lifted their heads back up. Even on a partly sunny day, their cups held the light I longed for.
Their yearly visit is coming to an end, and soon they will go back to their lives underground. But their small survival and radiance always fortifies me