Ode to a Trillium

     "I can still bring into my body the joy I felt at seeing the first trilliums of spring, which seemed to be telling me, 'Never give up hope, spring will come.'"

Jessica Stern

     I was thinking recently about what nature means to me; in fact it means everything. Without its constant presence in my life I would be like a rudderless ship without power, on a dark, stormy night, out of control and drifting aimlessly. 

     Ironically, the stimulus for this moment of introspection was not engendered by a bird, but by a flower. Miriam and I were scouring the woods a couple of weeks ago, looking for the first trilliums poking through the ground.

     There is surely a constant about this rite of spring that surpasses even the wonder of migration. Birds may or may not appear at a given location, and some species are hard to see, and less predictable in a time of climate disruption.

     Trilliums, on the other hand, are a constant, a predictable and cherished old friend, and we always know where to find them. They are joined by other spring ephemerals, all delightful in their own way - and welcomed - but none cause me quite the same joy as the first trillium in bloom.

     Mostly, I am eager to share in the company of my fellow naturalists, and welcome their companionship and like-minded passion for nature, but there is a brief period in spring where I become quite misanthropic, and look forward to being alone with Miriam as we search the ground for those first trilliums poking through the soil. 

     I can barely convey the joy we experience when we succeed, and then begin the wait for the first flower. 

     If I could be a flower, I would choose to be a trillium, appear briefly each spring and make a big splash, and leave everyone longing for a repeat performance next year.

     That's the way to live!