The house that I recently moved to stands at the junction of a street crisscrossing the road. My house is located in an uncluttered, orderly suburb, discernible with the other known suburbs in the city. However, I am not sure whether it qualifies for a 'top' suburb. Neither do I mind much about qualifiers. Lined with comfort cottages, bordering on red tiled roofed period houses, the suburb road and the streets are lush and lavishly green - the trees throwing in together heralding spring.
When I moved into this part of the city, the trees, imposing and colossal, stood stark-naked avouching the shift in the seasons. It was winter then, receding reluctantly in time. Walking on the road and sometimes the different streets, cushioning the suburb, in the final winter month, I could feel the nature's nakedness with the blue expanse of the sky scrutinising and searching all that colluded beneath, our suburb's spartanism. It was an amazing experience watching the wintry sky, the buttery sun burning soft on the skin.
I had few companions walking their dogs. The pavements were mostly deserted, our road hardly witnesses hustling traffic with few swishing by to evade the expressway traffic as much as they can. The grass patches, hemming in the tree trunks, were mostly slush and sterile. Only the cars parked on the streets, zoomed into indolence. The houses, too, gave into the arms of Morpheus. For the first time in years, revisiting my memories back to a country where I lived for a while, I was face-to-face with human activity similarly shrouded into seclusion. But for now, winter has withdrawn not to be back until next year.
Like our rooms, the trees and its branches were sitting tight, the wilderness laid into waste. On my regular walks down the road to the grocer's and public transport, I used to look up into the early spring sky wondering when shall we witness the trees teeming with life, emerald in colour. The silence of the suburb has already been sweetened by the balmy scent in the weather. I am starting to look forward to the walks, but making no sign of haste as the fresh morning rimy air has delayed the season's prime.
The magic spell did arrive albeit a little late. The thin spray of the sultry breeze has put a stamp on our suburb's environs. Spring has arrived. Leafy throughout, the road and the streets has sprung up flourishing. The liquidambar trees, traditionally found in old English gardens, makes for a blue-green embroidery on our suburb's fabric and fora. Entwining and clinging, the leaves swell in the first flush of the morning. In spring, small spherical heads of tiny green flowers appear, and the blooms are inconspicuous, they are followed by distinctive, spiky, woody seed capsules.
Raw and rousing, the foliage of these trees spread out all embracing, kissing. The nature's first kiss of the season, so fresh and ethereal. Spring is truly the tonic of our innate intelligence, refreshing and renewing. Walking down the road, I feel lively but civic decency bars me from going wild. Else, I would have hopped, skipped and jumped on my way down the lonesome road beneath the rich green mural. These days as I look up to snatch a glimpse of the bright spotless sky, the towering trees embraces me abysmal. The sun rays, seeping through the palmately lobed leaves, pecks on my cheeks warm.
The clouds and the rains, propping up in between, are not pleasing and they do not even greet with good grace. 'Perfection' in entirety, I believe, is just an overtone of being 'phantasmal'. Amazing are the moments only when we cultivate the 'spring' burgeoning in the pink and prime of life.
When I moved into this part of the city, the trees, imposing and colossal, stood stark-naked avouching the shift in the seasons. It was winter then, receding reluctantly in time. Walking on the road and sometimes the different streets, cushioning the suburb, in the final winter month, I could feel the nature's nakedness with the blue expanse of the sky scrutinising and searching all that colluded beneath, our suburb's spartanism. It was an amazing experience watching the wintry sky, the buttery sun burning soft on the skin.
I had few companions walking their dogs. The pavements were mostly deserted, our road hardly witnesses hustling traffic with few swishing by to evade the expressway traffic as much as they can. The grass patches, hemming in the tree trunks, were mostly slush and sterile. Only the cars parked on the streets, zoomed into indolence. The houses, too, gave into the arms of Morpheus. For the first time in years, revisiting my memories back to a country where I lived for a while, I was face-to-face with human activity similarly shrouded into seclusion. But for now, winter has withdrawn not to be back until next year.
Like our rooms, the trees and its branches were sitting tight, the wilderness laid into waste. On my regular walks down the road to the grocer's and public transport, I used to look up into the early spring sky wondering when shall we witness the trees teeming with life, emerald in colour. The silence of the suburb has already been sweetened by the balmy scent in the weather. I am starting to look forward to the walks, but making no sign of haste as the fresh morning rimy air has delayed the season's prime.
The magic spell did arrive albeit a little late. The thin spray of the sultry breeze has put a stamp on our suburb's environs. Spring has arrived. Leafy throughout, the road and the streets has sprung up flourishing. The liquidambar trees, traditionally found in old English gardens, makes for a blue-green embroidery on our suburb's fabric and fora. Entwining and clinging, the leaves swell in the first flush of the morning. In spring, small spherical heads of tiny green flowers appear, and the blooms are inconspicuous, they are followed by distinctive, spiky, woody seed capsules.
Raw and rousing, the foliage of these trees spread out all embracing, kissing. The nature's first kiss of the season, so fresh and ethereal. Spring is truly the tonic of our innate intelligence, refreshing and renewing. Walking down the road, I feel lively but civic decency bars me from going wild. Else, I would have hopped, skipped and jumped on my way down the lonesome road beneath the rich green mural. These days as I look up to snatch a glimpse of the bright spotless sky, the towering trees embraces me abysmal. The sun rays, seeping through the palmately lobed leaves, pecks on my cheeks warm.
The clouds and the rains, propping up in between, are not pleasing and they do not even greet with good grace. 'Perfection' in entirety, I believe, is just an overtone of being 'phantasmal'. Amazing are the moments only when we cultivate the 'spring' burgeoning in the pink and prime of life.
