Yellow, yellow

The forsythia is an uninspiring shrub most of the year; an unruly sprawl of small-leafed, rough stems, a shapeless tangle in the hedge, usually untrimmed, sheltering weeds out of the reach of all but the most obsessive gardeners.

But in the early spring, while the alders and cottonwoods are still wearing winter drab, the forsythia bursts into glorious, riotous, brilliant yellow blooms from the base of the branches to the new green shoots at their tips.

Each spring, I look for a bush that has overstepped its boundaries, obstructing a sidewalk or moving into a neighbouring property. There, I gather an armload to bring home and brighten my kitchen table.

Bursting out all over

Zooming in. Tidy round anthers in a circular cup. 

The flowers don't last long. The ones I picked two days ago are already folding their petals; new leaves will soon replace them.