It's pasqueflower time #phenology

The Jewish people began celebration of Passover at sundown yesterday. Today, Christians consider Holy Saturday and tomorrow, they celebrate Easter Sunday. During our childhood, which occurred back in the last millennium, new clothes at and for Easter and displaying Easter lilies in the house were traditions, along with the Easter Bunny, Easter eggs, and Easter baskets. These days, in our dotage, we've still got Easter eggs and baskets, but it's been years since we got new clothes specifically for Easter, and, not quite as far back, pasque flowers replaced Easter lilies as our celebratory blossom.

According to the internet's Wikipedia, the pasque flower's name is:

Derived from the Hebrew word for Passover, "pasakh", the common name pasque flower, refers to the Easter flowering period[1]. Common names include pasque flower (or pasqueflower), wind flower, prairie crocus, Easter flower, and meadow anemone.

pasque flower in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

The flower in the picture grew on a sandy slope behind the house for the past few years. We planted it after spending lots of time several Springs in a row unsuccessfully searching places reported to have wild pasque flowers growing. We finally decided it was time for the mountain to come to Mohammed, so to speak. This year there's been no sign yet of the flower's blooming, although the day lilies are just starting to emerge from the ground. It has been a later start than usual for Spring around here, even for the North Country. We won't give up hope for another week or two, but maybe it's time to go get another couple of pots of pasques just in case. This is definitely a case where we can, with a clear conscience, argue more is better.

Cut Lilies 

Noah Warren

More than a hundred dollars of them.

It was pure folly. I had to find more glass things to stuff them        
       in.

Now a white and purple cloud is breathing in each corner

of the room I love. Now a mass of flowers spills down my                
      dining table—

each fresh-faced, extending its delicately veined leaves

into the crush. Didn’t I watch

children shuffle strictly in line, cradle

candles that dribbled hot white on their fingers,

chanting Latin—just to fashion Sevilla’s Easter? Wasn’t I sad?        
      Didn’t I use to

go mucking through streambeds with the skunk cabbage raising

bursting violet spears?  —Look, the afternoon dies

as night begins in the heart of the lilies and smokes up

their fluted throats until it fills the room

and my lights have to be not switched on.

And in close darkness the aroma grows so sweet,

so strong, that it could slice me open. It does.

I know I’m not the only one whose life is a conditional clause

hanging from something to do with spring and one tall room        
      and the tremble of my phone.

I’m not the only one that love makes feel like a dozen

flapping bedsheets being ripped to prayer flags by the wind.

When I stand in full sun I feel I have been falling headfirst for        
      decades.

God, I am so transparent.

So light. 

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