A spring night, hurtling all-too-quickly toward the start of summer. The leaves have just begun to fill in the barren branches of winter, the pots newly planted and looking a little sparse. It is always that way in the beginning. The artificial light casts an eerie glow to the surroundings, warmer than the moon, but also more sickly. It is the pallor of another world, the shading of a different brush. Tell-tale signs of the day remain: the patio furniture slightly askew, the overturned wheelbarrow, the hose running through the yard like an endless snake.

A coral bark maple tree leaves streaks of crimson across the black firmament, echoing the dull blood of a brick wall, highlighting the golden beauty of its first flush of foliage. What arrogance, what cockiness, what rightful-pride-of-place it takes in its corner location, both anchoring and softening the end of the house. Its prettiness doesn’t shout like the yapping yellow jonquils or the tweeked-out tittering tulips – it rises quietly above that, into the night sky, reaching for loftier aims, higher goals.

In its silent stance, it is elegance in tree form. In this strange light, it shines forth other-worldly beauty, reflecting its own star-shaped-leaf-light. Red limbs provide structure like bloody bones, their almost-alien form ribbed by the scars of lost branches, illuminated in the glow of such absurd light.

The night wind begins up above. The song of spring is high at hand. The rush of life-giving rain awaits its cue.

On this night, all is hope, all is possibility, all is set… for the summer.

By the time I worked up the courage to venture out on a literal limb and begin pruning the cherry tree that had gone unattended for about three years too long, I neglected to factor in where the pruned branches might fall. My initial concern was the plants below, but once I got up there I was too scared to really worry about anything other than a power line and my own precarious balance. So this is one of the end results: a little tree in our pool. Along with a single felled peony branch, and a number of scratches on my arm, I think we all turned out rather well, especially when one considers the alternative: decimated peony plants, broken bones, and torn pool liners.

As often happens only when I reach the top of a twenty-foot ladder or the upper-limbs of a cherry tree, I was reminded of my fear of falling this weekend as I pruned the bejesus out of the tree seen here. (It was much higher than it appears, I swear.) It’s actually not so much the fear of heights that bothers me, it’s the fact that while doing things like painting or pruning, there is less of an opportunity to stabilize yourself when having to reach for things, or maneuver a long pair of pruning shears. That stability, or lack-there-of, is what sets my mind into overdrive imagining scenarios of losing my footing and falling, of a ladder buckling or a branch breaking beneath my feet. At that point, my legs start shaking, a panic sets in, and I cling to whatever is closest on hand for some grip on anything that won’t topple to the ground with me.

I haven’t climbed a tree like this in about two decades, and aside from the onerous sawing and pruning involved, it was actually pretty fun. While I don’t see myself climbing trees again anytime soon, it was nice to remember how to place my feet, navigate the climb upward, all with an eye on the journey back down. I used to climb the maple trees in front of our home when I was little, as soon as I was tall enough to jump into their lower boughs, as well as a sky-high evergreen that had perfectly-placed limbs like a magical spiral staircase, waiting to bring me heavenward. The bird’s eye view was exhilarating, and I don’t remember the fear that so quickly gripped me this time around. Like so many things, that fear is one of the atrocities of growing old, but I’ll fight against it in ways that don’t involve the possibility of a thirty foot plunge to earth.

Curious thing, my feelings on rain. Initially, and upon first storm, I carry on and flail wildly against it, ranting and raving like a water-allergic maniac. I throw a fit and a tantrum and bring the world down around me. Then it’s over. And if the rain persists, I come to appreciate it, almost embracing its calming effect on the world, how it can be a source of succor in a dry, arid dustbowl of a spring or summer. Once I become accustomed to it for a few days, I can make my peace, give it a nod, and walk side by side with it, umbrella and Burberry in hand. Anyway, onto the week in review, which was largely a sunny one.

The scent of spring 2013 was found in a little orange bag on Boylston Street.

A quiet little project continues its under-the-radar flight.

The beauty of art and friendship in a single piece of pottery.

A big fat Super Why? Well, why not…

Cocktail time: The Aviation, and a lemon twist on the classic gin & tonic.

Greenery provided by the following: the ostrich fern and sweet woodruff.

I was slightly obsessed with Anne Murray. Could I have this dance? 

The lusty month of May continued to provide interesting fodder for the Hunk of the Day, with the smorgasbord-like collection of Ryan Seacrest, naked Superman Henry Cavill, and Tom Hopper, buffered by a retiring David Beckham.

This little guy or gal was caught digging in my hydrangeas outside the bedroom window. I knocked on the pane loudly to scare him/her off, to no avail. In fact, the bold beast turned around and promptly lifted its tufted butt and shook it brazenly in my direction. I opened the window and hissed, and it climbed to the top of the fence post and stared me down. Cheeky thing. My hat is tipped to any creature with the balls to defy me in my own bedroom.

That’s one saucy squirrel.