Long, Long Moments

Several years ago, when my little outpost on the internet was still somewhat new, when I was at the tail end of my first year of learning the seasons in this place where we'd moved––an education that persists to this day, as Duncan seems to lead me deeper and deeper into the more subtle nuances of our world––I discovered the Linden trees, which, while not a replacement for my Russian Olives, have become a unique and greatly anticipated part of my year. They have become a marker for the days I have spent in Littleton and are worth the distance I choose to live away from Denver. They are the things I will miss the most, should I ever choose to leave, nearly as precious to me as the fireflies I left behind in the Shire-like Midwest all those years ago.

They are everywhere in Littleton and the air is just beginning to fill with the scent of them, a perfume that is as light and sweet at the Russian Olives are heady and sticky. It is tinged with traces of lilac and gardenia and candied plums, and does not saturate but wafts, like the settling balls of white which drift down from the tallest branches of the grand Cottonwoods. It is an odor that does not invade but waits for an invitation like a demure and blushing schoolgirl. There should be candles and perfumes built around it, and poems written about it, but sadly, the world is lacking in these things. So I must content myself with the brief weeks when I can sit on my patio, which looks out on four of them, and the one grows quite close to the window in my office so that when I sit at my desk and the breeze blows, as it is tonight, the sweet smell drifts over my face and soothes my spirit.

Duncan has been very patient with me these last few days, as the golden blossoms have opened up and exploded with the yellow bells of the flowers. They have pulled me to them and so we have stood beneath their shade for long, long moments, eyes closed, breathing them in, washing our pallet with them, dreaming of all the years of Lindens still to come. The passing of June could not be more sweet.

Away I walked for hours
whence stands the linden tree,
and still I hear it whisp'ring:
You'll find your peace with me!
(Wilhelm Müller, "Der LIndenbaum")