As I strolled through the tiny village of Galisteo, New Mexico one chilly spring morning, I spied a forsythia bush growing within the walled-garden of an ancient adobe home. I love the yellow blooms of forsythia, fluttering in the breeze – beckoning fickle spring to finally arrive. The name itself sweetly tickles the tongue as it falls from our lips. If ever I had a daughter, I would name her “Forsythia”. On tip-toes, I peeked over the garden wall and quickly snapped a few photos before anyone noticed my presence.