Flying into Atlanta on the first day of spring, it was a great relief to see that the white patches below were not snow but the blossoming pear trees.  Otherwise, branches were bare, and color was at a minimum.  Spring has been slow in coming this year in Georgia, as in so much of the country.  The infamous ice that trapped hundreds of Atlantans on the highways overnight  in February evidently wreaked havoc on spring’s plans for buds and blooms.  The weather wasn’t warm enough for sandals and porch-sitting, as I had hoped, but it was a decided improvement over that of still-thawing Virginia. And once on the ground, in the bright, cheery sunshine, every tiny leaf  and every small flower appeared radiant and jewel-like.  It had been years since I’d had a taste of springtime in Atlanta.  It felt very right to be back.   

Pear trees in full bloom in my parents’ neighborhood.

Periwinkle peeked out among fallen oak leaves.

Violets flourished in the cracks of the concrete turnaround at my parents’ house.

In the rock garden, Lenten roses, shy and subdued.

Every spring, for as long as I can remember, these small flowers appear in the lawn panel bordering the sidewalk in front of  a neighborhood house.  Pale lavender, with yellow centers, they have a strong sweet scent, unless they’re picked, when they quickly take on a sharp skunky odor. I gathered some in elementary school after a piano recital and learned my lesson.  Anyone know what they’re called?