It is the season of bloom, and each species, each flower, each tree, each blade of grass or weed, does so in its naturally ordained time. The irises are out, bobbing their heads. The irises, with their curvilinear lushness of bloom, their varieties of dark or pale purple, yellows, whites, ivories, even in the wild along the canal banks. I see the same time of ripeness for peonies, phlox, and endless incarnations I know not by name. Now is the season of bloom and blossom, at least for these, in their appointed time.
Which makes me speculate and wonder a bit, about the human metaphor, my own included.