Here is a sign that surely reflectsthe Puritan heritage of our college.For though it is meant for the coachesthat pull up to the curb, disbursinglimbs of basketball playerswho loiter at the back of the gym,I always think it applies to me,standing here in the new warmthof the winter sun, watching the first green tips of grass emerge from the dampness of the ground.
(Acer circinatum) Gray leaves, ghost leaves buried under the winter snowpack.Now, in spring, they lay their desiccated hands atop the ladders of Oregon grape, hoping to climb out of the grave. —Ross Lake National Recreation Area
(Dicentra formosa)Finally, a flower after my own. You there, hangingin unashamed bivalve clusters at the feet of ancient cedars.So few of them left, you know. Is that what breaks you? Is thatwhat makes you wear your sweet pink ventricles on your green sleeve? —Rockport State Park
False Solomon’s seal, you trade in frankincense and myrrh, filling the forest with your fragrance.There is a wisdom in the ladder of your leaves, clasping their way to each perfusion of scent and blossom.Multiplied beneath the sunlit spaciousness of Douglas fir, you make a Milky Way of stars, as if the skies had pouredthemselves into our lap, born again as a field of flowers, one vast aroma, calling us to a true home. —North Cascades National Park
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