Redbud trees (sigh—mine died in the Springfield Ice Storm of ’07) aren’t really red any more than red onions are. They’re purple—just like the march of spring across the Ozarks.
Funny place to be in, winding down one novel’s rewrite (coming closer to an end) just as Missouri’s in the midst of a new beginning, tugging open a pastel rainbow of buds—white, pink, and, yes, purple. (I love the way the blooms pictured here are clumped like waded-up balls of paper, as though a frustrated writer’s first attempts are hanging from the limbs. Hmmm. Could this be the Revision Tree?)
Soon, blue robin’s eggs will crack open like the spines of books for the first time.
…And I will be off on a new adventure, tramping through the mud of another rough draft.
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