Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Sing along to the tune of "Don't Cry for Me Argentina"
Don't cry for me Weeping Cherry
The truth is we're tired of your sorrow
If you'd just cheer up
Life's not that bad
We'd like you better
If you weren't so saaaddd...
This is our gigantic Weeping Cherry. He's the biggest, baddest, weepiest Weeping Cherry in the land. It's his time to shine on the property, with those lacy pink petals, delicately waving in the spring breeze, taunting the bare trees with his splendor. As beautiful as the tree is at the moment, the harsh reality is that when those pink petals are shed, like the tears of a spurned lover, he turns back into an ordinary tree, with green (how unoriginal) leaves. The name is obvious if you've ever had one of these tree's on your property. Once the tree is past it's prime the sweet pink petals drop in a confetti-esque fashion. Every time I walk down to the barn it's like I'm being lauded in my own personal parade. I pause, I wave and I thank the little people. The dogs have pink petals in their hair to go along with the various dead leaves, bits of shrubbery, and burs. My floor is decorated with precious pink petals, so it's always got that "day after the party" messy look going on, despite my best efforts with the Dyson. So you get it, the petals are a metaphor for tears, the tears of a sobbing, inconsolable idiot. Oh, poor, crying tree. Boo-hoo, I feel so sorry for you. Sometimes I feel like kicking his trunk and telling him to get over himself. But I don't, because it's a tree. I wouldn't kick a tree! I just FEEL like it sometimes. Like when you feel like telling an obnoxious person at the grocery store to "Shut the F up!", but you don't actually say it out loud, because that would be impolite and they might hit you.
Soon the other trees will have their leaves. I'm looking forward to the stately oak outside my office getting his leaves on. I'm tired of these naked trees. It's obscene looking at them with their spindly, exposed limbs and grooved trunks. I'm surrounded by tree porn, save for the Norwegian pines in the front of the property, who sway to and fro in the constant breezes, as if shaking their heads in shame for the naked hardwoods. Well, at least the Little Pink Prince has on his fancy frock of frilly petals, until he completes his teary striptease. Have you ever thought of trees as natures version of a group of raunchy strippers? Me either, till now. I'm glad I can blog about these meaningful, deep thoughts.