Magnificat

On Daughter's first day of Easter vacation, we skipped the park and headed here, to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, because we suspected this sort of thing was happening on Magnolia Plaza.

I don't think they have ever been this riotously gorgeous. People were stumbling around in a magnolia-drugged haze, nuzzling blossoms, taking cell-phone pictures, and just gazing into the spring sky. The breeze smelled like perfumed French soap.

There are pink ones, a few glowing buttery yellow ones, and snowy-white ones, their black branches a spare and elegant contrast.












We had lunch, bought some seeds (chervil, marigolds, black-eyed susan vine) and then headed back to the magnolias via Daffodil Hill, still at peak. Daughter objected violently when I could not resist humming Lara's theme from Dr. Zhivago and swanning about like Julie Christie.

In the Fragrance Garden, I solved a lifelong mystery: Since violets don't have any smell, where do they get violet perfume? The answer: I've been smelling the wrong kind of violets. These ones, aptly named viola odorata, emit a cloud of that elusive and haunting bouquet. I have never been to Paris, but I'm told that bunches of them are sold there on the street.

Comments

[Tantris]

Wow, that's sublime. Gotta make some time to visit the budding grove!