In honor of the brief but glorious interlude of the blossoming of the lime trees (or linden, or tilia, or whatever you call them) — no visible blossoms, and in fact, no visible trees, but only soft, luxurious waves of their delicate perfume from somewhere nearby — I offer a view of the recent spring, as told by flowers. Summer will be here in two days, and many of the flowers are already moving on. But each one of them was part of a spring which was chilly, late, and cranky, and often very lovely.
The pittosporum along the fondamenta by the Biennale is one of the first flowers to appear each year. It hangs on the longest, aging gracefully, concentrating its perfume to an almost nauseating degree.
Roses in the Giardini, which seem to have opened all at once.
And yet more roses. These seem to tend more toward the dog rose, which I like.
No war of the roses here; the red counterpart was planted virtually in the lap of the white roses.
Then suddenly there are poppies everywhere.
With tamarisk blooming to keep them company.
They make such a lovely couple.
There are homespun patches of garden around the neighborhood also. This is a sage plant in the process not only of flowering, but taking over the world.
A modest lemon tree.
Grapes in their earliest stage. Not a flower, of course, but I’ll take signs of life in any form that’s going.
Oleanders aren’t among my top ten, but this edition is an exception. It’s partly the fact that it has left shrubdom behind to become a tree, and partly that the tree has such a beautiful shape.
Though the blooms aren’t bad, I must admit.
The magnolias are coming out all over. Lovely as the flower may be, I have recently become more enchanted by the buds and the leaves, if anyone cares to know.
The famous violet artichoke of Sant’ Erasmo is a first-rate flower.
And back to roses again, which have found their niche in a closed-off doorway.