Each day dawns a little warmer, burns a little brighter, and lingers a little longer than the one before. We feel it, the slow, undeniable tilt back toward the sun. How grateful we are for its return.
Spring surges and she waits for no one. She moves with urgency, sweeping across the hillsides in ever-deepening shades of green. In her haste, she leaves behind a fleeting trail of glory. Blossoms that unfurl, pause in full breath, and then release, scattering themselves across the ground. Leaves emerge all at once, as if overnight, in a quiet explosion of new life.
We race to keep pace.
The season of sansai gathers momentum, one wild green giving way to the next. Tsukushi yields to watercress, watercress to warabi. And then, at the height of this brief and breathless interval, comes taranome, the buds of the angelica tree, the quiet queen of spring.
Their arrival marks a turning. The early bitterness begins to soften. Something fuller, rounder, takes hold. And yet, in this headlong rush toward summer, their window is the briefest of all.
We watch closely. Day by day. The wait is long. The moment, sudden. And then, gone.
It would be generous to call what we do foraging. Around us, wildness presses in from all sides. But just beyond the door, a thicket of taranome rises, spindly, thorned, unremarkable at first glance. Less graceful than the arching lines of maple or the soft bloom of sakura. And yet, far more coveted.
They rise quickly. Each bud unfurls with urgency, pushing upward from needled stalks, reaching into the light. Each one perfect for only a single day. Too soon, and it resists. Too late, and it hardens.
