arrest me.

On Wednesday, it snowed; huge sopping hunks of snow. Today it was 80+ degrees, or, as I used to tell my mom, it was "sweating hot."

Somewhere between then and now, everything popped. The flowers burst open. We have cascades. Full, pregnant branches, heavy with perfection.

I can't think about anything else.

On Friday night, it is possible that I slipped into shoes and leashed the dog in a flurry; that I whispered to my sleeping husband: "I found an tree that just blossomed on the side of the road. Come and find me if I'm not back soon."

Let's be clear: I wouldn't ever go into anyone's yard and take branches from their trees. I wouldn't trespass (knowingly). But I know every empty lot with a lilac bush, every roadside apple tree.
In the spring, I drive with scissors in my car. 

I come home with arms full.  Maybe giddy. I pull vases out. I pour water. I prune. The kitchen sink becomes a procession.

This is what I love: that we can have a home that's too small, a rug that's too dirty, walls that are uninspired. But with five labored snips, a little water and our wedding vases, I can walk into our home and my heart skips. Every time I come through the door.