There is color everywhere across the peninsula, finally. Spring has decked out, and on top of the finery, it’s wearing lavish perfume. On a walk today, the fragrance of lily-of-the-valleys in the nearby woods was arresting. (Yes, I stopped in my tracks.)
And oh… the lilacs are everywhere, so many are in my house. I don’t feel a bit guilty absconding with bunches of them when the bushes are plentiful in front of abandoned farmhouses or deserted old stone foundations, planted years ago by people now long gone.
I plan to take more pictures soon of these marvelous colors, but today I cannot help but fixate on just one of them: green.
Two weeks ago, things were brown; now they are not.
Pastures and fields and meadows are green.
Roadsides are green.
The trees are full-on, uncomplicated, and only green.
When I taught students about poetry, we always dissected the poet’s use of color. Because of course, color means everything.
For example, if Dylan Thomas had written about “good men” dancing in an orange bay, or a turquoise bay or a crimson one, the feel would be different. Good men nurture others; they cultivate and bring life, so green is absolutely the right color, the right choice of a word.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Color is full of connotation. It evokes mood, emotion, memory. It’s why good writers use it effectively. It’s why I’m glad I don’t live in a drab and colorless world.
Door County is always pretty. I love the blues of the lake in the summer, the oranges and reds of fall, the white of winter. Today, however, I’m especially taken by and grateful for the green of spring.