Bradford pears, ornamental plums, redbud, weeping cherry. White, lavender, magenta, pink.
It's like a slow explosion of color, not there one day, fully present the next.
It does something to the brain. When 6 or 7 million photosensitive cones in human eyes haven't seen much color for months and suddenly have to work overtime to see it all, it comes as kind of a psychic jolt as well.
It restores the soul.
Anyway, it does for me.
Growing up, I took all this for granted. This is just what happens. Happens every year. Ho hum.
I'm a little wiser now.
More than 20 years ago, my West Virginia self traveled through tens of miles of urban slum in the Philadelphia area.
Endless grimy rowhouses for many square miles.
Not a tree or a shrub or a patch of grass as far as the eye could see. Flat as a pancake, covered with broken concrete and worn brick structures.
Urbanites come to West Virginia and are shocked by the poverty they see. How, they will ask after going up some hollow, can people live like this?
I think if you took busloads of West Virginians past what I have seen in Philadelphia and Baltimore and Washington, D.C., their reaction would be much the same:
How can people live like this?
West Virginians are statistically poor - still stubbornly one of the poorest states in the nation.
But the poorest of the poor can step out of the humblest trailer on the most forgotten road and walk in beauty, first in spring, then in summer, then in fall.
It's a richer grade of poverty by far.
Maurice is editorial page editor of the Daily Mail. She may be reached at 348-4802 or ha...@dailymail.com.