Back in April, what started as a light “icing sugar” dusting in small places ended up this week as broad, thick flags of yellow every where you look – no matter what the street.  Every morning my bus takes me past house-lined streets, sidelines of the Don Valley, a golf course, and pockets of commercial office complexes.  Forsythia bushes abound in all kinds of plantings and landscaping.  Some are trimmed to a compact shape, while others resemble my mother’s forsythia in the backyard.  She liked to let the branches grow long.  The blooming is like a spray of yellow star-bursts falling down to the ground.  On my way home – if I take the walking route – I pass three wonderful masses of forsythias.  That time of day the sun is low and shining through the yellow petals.  The yellow is indescribably intense – perhaps because there is so much of it.  The bushes are like portals into another reality where “yellow” is what you eat, sleep, and breathe.  Living in the “yellow place” is smooth and sweet like lemon sorbet, deeply satisfying, and it’s all you need.