Now I understand that part of the myth of Aphrodite—you know, the part about her being so fickle, just loving what was in front of her. Well, the myth also says that when she was born out of the sea, everywhere she stepped flowers sprang up and bloomed. I’m sure every footstep brought forth a different flower, too, and so how could she help herself. I’m right there with her. First there were the paperwhites—ah, the fragrance; but look, next the redbuds and the bees; then all the wild violets so thick I have to tiptoe to walk around them; then there’s the daffodils, then the camellia, and then… I fall in love with each one, blissed out again and again in the heady rapture of spring. Yesterday I stepped out my door and began counting; between my front door and my mailbox were thirty-two dogwood trees in bloom! The forest understory is all white. Happy Birthday, Aphrodite!
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