The forsythia blooming has been my personal, “official” signal of Spring’s arrival for a long time. Decades ago, I lived in a house surrounded by forsythia bushes that I dutifully clipped into globe-like shapes. I say “globe-like” because I was not very skilled in the endeavor; nonetheless, I managed to convey my intention. It seems to me that for about eleven-and-a-half months a year, forsythia bushes are relatively uninteresting: generic green in the summer, giving way to dropping leaves in the fall and stark branches in winter. For a couple of weeks in spring, however, they display their bright yellow finery, as if channeling the promise of the sun’s caresses while we’re still despairing in winter’s gloom.