Top 10 Best Essays About March

March brings with it the fiery blossoms of the Bombax tree, stirring a sense of wonder and nostalgia in all who witness its vibrant red hues against the expansive sky. This flower, deeply intertwined with the essence of Vietnamese village life, has long stood as a symbol of tranquility, simplicity, and timeless charm. Known by many names, including Pơ Lang and the heroic "Tree of Heroes," its roots trace back to India but have since flourished across Southeast Asia.

During winter, the tree's bare branches seem lifeless, yet as spring arrives, its emerald buds begin to bloom, transforming into clusters of red blossoms, resembling radiant flames. These blossoms, nurtured by March's gentle rains and tender sunshine, burst open into five-petaled wonders, embodying the tree's stored energy from its dormant months. Beyond its beauty, the flower is also valued in traditional medicine for its healing properties, offering remedies for various ailments and nutritional benefits through its rich composition.

The Bombax tree holds a cherished place in Vietnamese culture and childhood memories. Despite superstitions warning of spirits inhabiting the tree, children play beneath its shade, crafting garlands and crowns from fallen blossoms. This tree, entwined with myths and rural traditions, also serves as a natural calendar for agricultural activities and weather forecasting.

A poignant legend surrounds the tree, telling of a love so deep it transcended realms. A young man, taken to the heavens to assist with rain-making, left his beloved behind. Grieving and longing, she transformed into the Bombax tree, her blossoms a vivid red, mirroring her love and devotion. Even in its stillness, the flower's brilliance speaks of undying passion and connection.

Throughout literature and music, the Bombax flower inspires profound emotions. Poets and songwriters have immortalized its vibrant presence and the bittersweet memories it evokes. In its fiery bloom, the tree embodies resilience, beauty, and the passage of seasons, each petal a testament to the enduring spirit of spring and love.

(Adapted from the tale of Pơ Lang and cultural reflections)

March arrives, playfully painting the long, distant streets in golden hues as winter fades away. The crape myrtles glow in soft purple, while golden cassias at the street's end begin to bask in sunlight. The delicate clusters of cassia flowers sway gracefully in the open air, their beauty unfolding in the serene morning of March like a silken tapestry. Streets awaken, adorned with the purity of new sunlight, stretching endlessly into the horizon.

The city stirs as dawn unveils a gentle new day in the East, the sun rising with a calm brilliance. Mischievous dew drops cling to leaves while little birds chirp in cheerful harmony, greeting the morning as if smiling back at it. The sky, a transparent silk veil, drapes over the city, and the refreshing breezes dance among the trees.

The morning is cool and pure. Elderly folks take slow, peaceful steps, their exercise a quiet ritual in the soft light of the awakening city. Smiles and greetings blend seamlessly with warm exchanges, gentle waves of hands, and leisurely steps filled with trust and affection. The streets stretch wide, seemingly expanding to embrace their newfound brightness. Rows of houses transform into smiling faces, erasing the familiar hustle and bustle of the urban landscape.

The city glows as morning sunlight cascades from rooftops to alleyways, from treetops to doorsteps. The rays illuminate small food stalls bustling with breakfast preparations, light up bicycle baskets carrying schoolbooks, and glimmer on the yokes of street vendors carrying their wares. The golden warmth spreads through every corner, from the humble calls of noodle sellers to the cheerful chatter of morning markets. The sunlight perches proudly on bicycles, joining the many journeys to workplaces.

As the morning gains momentum, the city's heartbeat grows louder with honking cars and the aroma of freshly made breakfasts. The vibrant calls of street vendors and animated conversations fill the air, energizing every corner. Suddenly, the sound of a childhood memory echoes—a mother's voice selling sticky rice cakes, a nostalgia for the scent of freshly unwrapped treats, warm, fragrant, and rich in flavor. In these moments, the vibrant golden hue of March feels alive, a vivid connection to the streets of youth, full of camaraderie and joyful echoes of school mornings.

March’s golden sunlight spills across the roots of trees and into quiet alleys. The city, fully awake now, no longer lingers lazily in the chirping of sparrows. Morning coffee brews fill the air with rich aroma, droplets of sweat forming on foreheads, and the rhythm of life quickens in the unique vibrancy of the city.

Life’s challenges resurface—rushed footsteps, hurried wheels, bustling days filled with effort and perseverance. Among the noise, echoes of sorrow emerge: a child’s cry, the honking urgency of traffic, and the silent struggles of those burdened by life’s trials. Yet, the city, like a steadfast companion, embraces all the chaos, offering its streets and sunlit corners as a place of solace. The sunlight, tireless and gentle, continues to dry the lingering dew of the changing seasons.

March’s city streets are dappled with tentative sunlight, like a pause in the season’s transition. Young women offer golden cassia flowers to loved ones, their delicate hands coloring the city with vibrant yellow hues. Dewdrops glisten like curious eyes watching from the leaves, while the soft streets seem to reach out to wanderers, their paths woven together by the threads of fate. Riding a small cart through the winding roads, one can feel the city’s calm, its infinite stories flowing like a quiet river beneath the golden canopy.

As the sun sets, the golden light of the city gives way to evening. Time slows as dusk approaches, casting a warm glow over the streets. In the stillness, a feeling of longing emerges—a longing for the fleeting days of the past and the serenity of March mornings. The city, bathed in twilight, gathers its memories like fragile petals, hiding them within the folds of the evening breeze. Each step, each glance, holds echoes of the city’s heart—its laughter, its sorrows, and its timeless beauty. The night gently drapes a soft blanket over the city, a quiet embrace for its weary soul.

Through days and months, the wheels of life roll on, carrying hearts tethered to the city’s rhythm. The nostalgic sound of old Nokia messages rings in memory, bringing tears to the eyes. The streets, ever vibrant, are both a canvas of joy and a sanctuary for memories. In the golden glow of March, the city whispers stories of love and resilience, a testament to its timeless charm.

Tran Hien

As a young man filled with dreams, each time March arrives, my heart flutters with nostalgia. I cannot help but remember the simple yet profound lines from the poem 'Mùa hoa bưởi' by poet Nghiêm Thị Hằng: "It's not by chance that you think of March/Think of me, think of the grapefruit flowers/Falling petals make your heart uneasy/The fragrance of the distant village lands..."

March arrives with a lingering chill still wrapping around the body, blowing through hair and hurried jackets. March is poetic, serene, and full of memories for those who dream and feel deeply.

March brings with it rays of sunshine, as golden as sweet nectar. The sunlight touches the heart, evoking purity and gentleness. March steps out of the lingering dampness of February, the chill of winter, and blossoms with a miraculous vitality. The earth awakens, and nature rejoices with a burst of growth.

March arrives, bringing with it dreams and hopes, a time of joy and optimism in the hearts of Vietnam's youth. March is a month of faith and hope, of activities that are filled with humanity. It is a month of passion, of hearts eager to contribute... And somewhere, many still associate March with images and names that hold deep meaning. But for the hearts of the youth of President Hồ’s generation, the name “Youth Month” seems to resonate the most.

For the soldiers of the sea, March—Youth Month—brings them a flood of emotions. As a large force present in all areas of work, from the mainland and high mountains to distant islands, from factories, stations, platforms to ships on the seas, March for these young soldiers remains lively, whether stationed on land or serving at sea. These young soldiers embody Youth Month with practical actions, constantly enhancing the spirit of learning, self-improvement, and dedication, bringing kindness and noble gestures to the people.

I picture in my mind the image of sweat dripping onto the ground, eventually giving birth to fragrant flowers and sweet fruits tomorrow. This sweat will help these young soldiers grow, mature, and become the core force, stepping up to continue the legacy of their comrades, guarding the sacred sovereignty of the sea and islands of our homeland, no matter the situation.

Under the golden sun of March, amidst the breezy training grounds, the young soldiers tirelessly practice military techniques. Each individual is committed, following the motto of diligent training, strict discipline, and readiness for combat. Every soldier shows the utmost determination to excel in their rookie training and become a proud member of the Vietnam People’s Army.

As sweat soaks through their uniforms, beads of sweat trickle down the sunburned faces on the training grounds. Sweat falls onto gun platforms, ships, and workshops. Sweat drips onto textbooks in sun-drenched classrooms. Sweat falls onto the scorching sands of distant islands. No matter how harsh the sun or rain, no matter how sweat dries up the body, the naval soldiers continue to train diligently, remaining focused and committed to every task. The faces of the soldiers radiate, embodying their spirit of overcoming hardship with courage and resilience. The sweat they shed on the training grounds and fields deepens my admiration for their extraordinary efforts, proving that for a soldier, the motto 'Sweat in training, blood less on the battlefield!' is a guiding principle. This is the aim, the goal that every soldier strives for, as they prepare for the difficult journey ahead, determined to protect the sky, sea, and sacred islands of our homeland with unwavering resolve.

'Youth is like a cup of tea'—these young soldiers are showcasing their responsibility, capability, and intelligence through their training, learning, work, and will forever cherish these unforgettable moments in their album of youth. And when we think of youth, surely we all remember the beloved March...

'March arrives with waves swelling in my heart/The soft sleeves are drenched with sweat/Training grounds bloom on gun barrels/The sound of the open sea resonates within me...!'

- Mạnh Thường -

“I lean my head into March... Sitting back in the evening, watching the spring seasons fade.”

To some, March is sweet and tender, a season of gentle violets that evoke a quiet longing. As March arrives, the deep purple flowers remind us of promises made, which have slowly faded with time. We still cherish that color, not because of loyalty as some may say, but simply because it soothes the soul and lets it wander freely.

March also brings the bittersweet scent of orange blossoms, tucked away in a handkerchief given to a lover heading off to war. It’s the haunting white of flowers that should have been red, a color that stirs a deep ache, both overwhelming and dizzying.

March carries the chill of early spring, making us hastily finish scarves as the wind picks up, while a warm sun makes us squint. It’s neither summer nor autumn, yet the air feels dry, like a capricious young woman. March also holds the fiery yet soft rain, no longer shy under the vast old trees, as memories of youth stir within us. The flowers smile as they drift down the streets, offering their beauty without restraint.

“March to me is the orange blossom
And the deep purple flowers behind the house
The fiery sky urging cicadas to sing
Buzzing as the first hints of summer arrive”

March is a dreamlike, delicate month, yet for me, it’s full of unresolved debts. I owe my parents love and care that I’ve never fully expressed. I owe kindness and gratitude that I might never repay. I owe my child the first day of school, a hand to hold, and answers to innocent questions like, “Why doesn’t mom pick me up?” I owe dreams and unspoken plans for the future.

Reading congratulatory messages on Women’s Day, my heart feels heavy, not joyful. It’s a day to celebrate women’s rise, but I find myself falling. A day that changes the fate of a person, yet in a brief moment, someone ignores the consequences of their actions, not considering the impact on others.

Someone once told me to forget the past, to let go of pain and embrace the present with joy. I don’t live in the past, but everything I face now is shaped by it. It’s reflected in my body, marked by scars, aches, and everyday pains that only those who’ve lived it can understand. It’s the image of my father, always returning home to cook medicine, my mother secretly wiping tears while massaging my feet, and my older brother, still helping me after all these years. It’s the frantic worry of a child taking care of an ill parent, the unexpected gestures of kindness from friends, and the gifts given from the heart.

We lean into March
Not to yearn or regret
Not to hold anger or blame
But to embrace the love that remains

This March feels different, much like the chaotic moments of ringing in the New Year, with torrential rain pouring down, rushing across rooftops. As March comes, I find myself lost in thoughts and worries, yet pushing them aside to continue on the path ahead.

After eighteen years of March, I no longer cry quietly through long nights. I’ve learned to face the uncertainties of life, knowing who will remain and who will pass through. I lean into March, to see that life still holds many precious moments, to watch as the flowers bloom and the seasons move on with peace in my heart.

Lê Hà

Listening to the weather forecast predicting a northeast monsoon with scattered rain, while the hot weather makes the neighbor's noodle vendor mutter: 'It's as hot as summer, how could they forecast rain tomorrow? Oh well! Rain would be nice; the spring rice needs water.' And sure enough, when night falls, the wind turns cold, and by morning, there’s a downpour with thunder and lightning flashing across the sky. The March rain is not as torrential as summer rains, but it’s enough to refresh the plants after the dry winter. Especially for the rice fields. There’s a saying: 'Spring rice bends low at the edges of the field, but when thunder roars, it grows tall,' and indeed, the rice, which was once weak and thin, suddenly flourishes after the rain, growing rapidly and surprisingly. The March rain doesn’t rush, it’s gentle and calm, like the people themselves. After the busy days of the Tet festival, with everyone eagerly visiting temples and shrines during the spring festivities, now that the season has passed, life returns to its usual pace, slower and calmer, bringing back peace and quiet to the countryside. Offices and factories return to their routine schedules, villages become still again, and the spring storks and swallows glide over the green rice fields. The village girls are back to their daily farming tasks, tending to the rice fields, pulling weeds, fertilizing, and taking care of vegetable gardens... For artists, the March rain also stirs fresh emotions, creating new movements deep within their souls, inspiring beautiful literature and poetry. March makes people feel more vibrant, energized by the warmth, fresh air, and the season of budding trees. These rains act like a refreshing tonic, nurturing all living things and ushering in a new growth cycle with nature. The rainy days are also moments for reflection, to think about what we’ve achieved so far and prepare for the future, whether short-term or long-term. The March rains also bring out the purple blossoms of the cassia tree, filling the air with their gentle fragrance, while the white flowers of the lemon tree bloom, emitting a refreshing scent. The rain helps the young fruits grow quickly. I remember as a child, when the lemon blossoms fell, my siblings and I would collect them and make flower water. Although it didn’t smell as nice as the perfumes from the market, we still had fun sprinkling it on our heads. The March rain often lasts for days, making us feel nostalgic for distant memories or long-forgotten hometowns. It’s gentle, evoking feelings of longing and love. Today, as I sit and watch the March rain, I realize I’m no longer young. It makes me think about changing my ways, letting go of unnecessary desires, ignoring envy and pettiness, and living simply and peacefully. We need to be more forgiving with ourselves and our friends. The March rain is like an opportunity to cleanse the soul. It reminds me of the cassia and lemon flowers in the garden of my childhood, of the games we played back then. Even though the past feels far away, it remains with us in spirit. Essay by: Bùi Nhật Lai - Thái Nguyên.

For many years now, every March when I return to my hometown, I often pause, mesmerized by the vibrant red flowers of the cotton trees and the blossoming lilac flowers on the long-forgotten and now revived acacia trees. The peaceful water hyacinths, gently floating with pale blue flowers, also catch my attention, evoking memories of my sweet, nostalgic childhood days. My youth was filled with memories of following my grandmother to the fields, tending to the buffalo, and watching as her hunched back carefully raked the mud-covered rice paddies, removing weeds. I remember her brown shirt soaked with sweat, the sky so vast, the endless rice fields so green, and the cotton flowers in full bloom. These sights created a rural landscape in my heart, making my emotions stir. On our way home, she would tell me stories of her childhood, how she used to tend to buffaloes and gather grass, and how the cotton tree had always been there. On a nearby vacant lot, she and her friends would play games like skipping stones or playing tag, while the boys would enjoy their own games. During the cotton blossom season, the fallen petals would cover the ground around the tree. The children would roll around on the soft carpet of flowers, enjoying the moment. Those times were full of whispers in the air, providing a strange yet comforting warmth amidst the deep red flowers. My grandmother's voice would then become dreamy and wistful, telling stories of a past that seemed both distant and present. March in my homeland is the time when rice is flowering. Once, my grandmother plucked a young rice shoot for me and said, 'Try this; the rice is full of milk.' I tasted it, and the sweetness and creamy flavor filled my senses, gentle yet invigorating. The March cold in my village could be biting, the chill penetrating deep into your bones. Yet, every night, lying on the warm straw mat with my grandmother, I could smell the intense scent of her betel leaf as she chewed it, which filled me with a comforting warmth. Her tales of the village during harvest season, dreams of a prosperous life, and games of hide-and-seek by the fragrant haystacks would lull me into a deep, peaceful sleep. As the years passed, I still remember the warm straw bed, the aroma of the betel leaf from my grandmother's mouth, the smoke from the kitchen, and the humble meals of boiled cassava and sweet potatoes during our hard times. All these became deep memories, evoking a mixture of longing and warmth, bringing tears to my eyes whenever I thought of them. Years later, after finishing my studies and working far from home, each time I returned to the village, I felt the deep resonance of the stories my grandmother had told. I now understood that, even though she worked hard to make a living, her soul was always touched by the warmth of the countryside, by the trees and plants. In that March, while working in the city, I received a call — my grandmother had passed away at the age of ninety. I rushed home, and we buried her in the field she had once tended, where she had raised buffaloes, planted rice, and harvested crops. On my return, as I passed the rice fields, I instinctively plucked a rice shoot, bringing it to my lips and feeling the rush of memories and the sharp pang of loss. I suddenly recalled the countless times my grandmother had bent her back to plant rice, the stories of her childhood, the sugarcane she would set aside for me, and the bowl of rice with boiled perch that she made for me. All these things, like a sweet fragrance, now linger in my memories, distilled into the very essence of our countryside. In that sorrowful moment, as my grandmother peacefully rested in the rice field, I felt an overwhelming longing for her. Her image, dressed in that old brown shirt, stayed with me even as I journeyed far from home. She had awakened in me an awareness of the trees, the seasons, and the local flowers. In my grief, I felt that the village, the memories of her, and I were still connected in an eternal embrace. That night, I drifted into dreams. By morning, the cotton flowers had fallen outside the village gate, painting the ground red. Was my grandmother resting on that red carpet of flowers, or were the cotton flowers spreading a blanket of love for her as she ascended to heaven? I no longer felt sorrow. Her departure seemed a natural part of life, and I found peace knowing she had returned to rest where she had spent her life working, tending to the fields. Watching the flowers cover the cotton tree's base, I felt a sense of calm. For the people of the countryside, life and death were intertwined with shared joy and a final farewell under the red cotton petals. I recalled the familiar verse: 'And so, the red petals fall, as if there had never been a farewell.' Indeed, my grandmother will always remain in my heart, and in the hearts of everyone who knew her. As I grew older, I began to understand that my grandmother's diligence, love for the land, and her dreams of abundance were the driving forces that shaped my life. Yet, every time I return home, I feel small, as if I have never truly grown. The villagers may still toil under the sun, but their hearts remain pure. Perhaps the trees, flowers, and the quiet ponds have made people gentle and kind. Every return feels like a warm embrace, as if the flowers themselves ignite a flame of love, and the soft, delicate purple flowers of the acacia tree and the humble water hyacinths floating on the water symbolize the lasting connection of life. And as each season passes, when the flowers bloom anew, I feel the ache of longing for my grandmother. I now understand that, no matter how glorious life may be away from home, the most important thing in life is to return to the HOME, where our ancestors rest, where family and friends are waiting. It is a place where childhood memories are eternally beautiful and preserved in our hearts. Grandmother, did I leave to find a heaven? I once believed it was always ahead, a place I strove for with all my strength. But now, as I return often, I realize: heaven was always behind me, in the pure childhood memories, in the boundless love that filled my heart. Each March, as the spring rain drifts toward summer, the streets bloom with vibrant, fragrant flowers. Yet, none compare to the simple, quiet beauty of the cotton flowers, the acacia blossoms, and the water hyacinths from the village, which remain etched in my soul. They are gentle, graceful, and fragrant with the essence of life. They are the source of comfort when I feel lost, the place of forgiveness when I err, and the messenger that brings people back to the countryside, where they can relive the peaceful, contented days of their youth. The chill of spring and the warmth of the transition to summer... March always leaves a lasting mark on my life, a time I will never forget. Luu Thi Phung

“ …In March, the rain pours, the ponds are full, fish swim freely, gathering together to race…”

I can’t remember exactly when, but since I was in second or third grade, whenever I sat down to study, my mother would ask me to read out loud passages like this repeatedly. That’s why even though it’s been over fifty years, I can still remember many of those passages as if they were burned into my memory.

Time passes, many things fade away, but the memories of March remain vivid in my heart, particularly the first rains of the season. Without hats or umbrellas, I would follow my older brother into the rain, to the ponds, and ditches, catching schools of fish swimming against the flow. Sometimes we came back with baskets full of fish. Looking at the large catfish, some as big as a hand, the silver-scaled minnows, the pregnant fish, and the bony, red-eyed ones, my mother felt both joy and sorrow. She was happy because the next day we could sell these fish at the market and earn some rice, but also saddened that these fish, in their quest for new territories and the taste of the first rains, had met their unfortunate end. Even though I was only twelve or thirteen at the time, I was naive, enjoying the rain and the hunt, unaware of the deeper emotions of the adults. As I grew up and left home, every time March arrived, my heart would ache with the memories of those early rains.

March weather is mischievous, with sudden sunshine followed by unexpected rain and chill. An old saying goes, “January is the coldest, February brings the cold dew, and March is the cold of Lady Ban.” The story of Lady Ban has stayed with me through the years.

Lady Ban, a slow but diligent woman, worked tirelessly all winter making a coat for her husband, but could only complete the sleeves. When she finally finished it, the weather was hot. She asked the Jade Emperor to make it cold again so her husband could try on the coat. The Emperor, moved by the woman's patience, granted her wish, and from then on, March’s cold was known as “Lady Ban’s chill.”

Lady Ban sewed a coat for her husband
Spent three months and only finished the sleeves
Praying for the cold to return
So she could see her husband wear it.

March, though simply the third month of the lunar year (or fourth in the solar calendar), carries much emotion for the rural folk, especially farmers. It marks the season when rice is ripening in the fields, yet many households have run out of stored rice and are anxiously waiting for the harvest to speed up.

The saying “If you make it through August, you’ll survive; if you make it through March, you’ll starve” is well-known. In the farming world, there are two critical times of year when rice runs low—March and August. But March is the worst, as there’s nothing to harvest or eat; unlike in August, when fruits like guava or persimmons help ease hunger.

My father passed away early, and my mother had to work hard to raise us. With just a few acres of rice fields, we were completely dependent on nature, and no matter how hard we tried or how frugal we were, we would always run out of rice right after Tet. That’s why March was always a dreadful month for my mother and others in similar situations.

The cotton tree by the riverbank, near the village, was colored red with March’s arrival, while my childhood echoed with the song of the red-whiskered bulbuls. I recall the sound of the radio announcing the northeast monsoon winds, and suddenly, March would come to my mind.

Though today, March is no longer associated with hunger or fear, the memory still lingers within me, as it does for many others. I still remember a March with sudden downpours and the sky clearing to reveal a rainbow. A March when the warmth turned cold unexpectedly.

The cold began as a subtle love, neither harsh nor fierce, but gentle enough to make one reach for fashionable clothes. Then came the first downpour of the season, and memories of those fish-filled ponds from my childhood became even more poignant.

Essay by Nguyễn Văn Thích

The second month brings a gentle drizzle,
March sunshine spreads wings, a dragonfly in flight.
The red flowers tease the wild hibiscus,
While the sweet-smelling pomelo blossoms gently greet the xoan trees.

March tugs at the heart with the blooming flowers, the soft spring rain, and a touch of early summer's warmth, as the river seems to long for a distant memory.

I remember the red blossoms of the gao trees, lying in the evening sunlight on an empty riverbank. Their reflections in the calm waters create a festival of floating lights. In the garden, delicate pomelo blossoms lazily await the sun. The xoan flowers, deep purple and fragrant, scatter memories along the winding country paths. The ban flowers, white and soft pink, blanket the hillsides like the blush on a young girl’s cheeks. The plum flowers gently bow in the breeze, their fragrance weaving through the new paths with irresistible charm.

The white clusters of the tree of pearls gracefully adorn the mountainside, like a fine silk veil. The sweet-scented flowers of the sưa tree send a stream of creamy nectar to the streets. And occasionally, beneath the shade of the sấu tree, clusters of pristine white blossoms appear like newly dropped pearls.

What is it about March that makes me ache with longing? I remember March with a pang in my heart as I pass the clusters of xoan trees near the field. Their delicate white and purple petals form clouds atop the leaves, casting a soft, mystical glow over the river below, as if an ethereal mist had settled upon it. It's as though I’ve stepped into a fairytale world, with the skies above adorned with trembling blossoms swaying in the breeze.

The gao tree at the village’s edge sheds its fiery red blooms, filling the air with a sweet, inviting fragrance. The color intensifies with each raindrop, and its sweetness mirrors the soft lips of a girl. Anyone who has ever held a red gao flower in their hands can never forget the tempting desire to taste its petals, just like a kiss. The alluring sweetness of the red blossoms calls out tenderly.

The gao tree at the end of the village remains tall and slender, but its branches now carry thousands of fiery red flowers. The tree’s sap flows like a river, lighting the sky with a million twinkling candles, as though the heavens themselves were hosting a grand celebration. One day, suddenly, the blossoms burst forth in a display of vivid color, bringing a new beginning, like fresh rice grains in a harvest. These petals drift in the wind, weaving their way through the narrow paths, their delicate threads forming the early morning mist. How many of us realize that the strings of white threads are the result of March's gao flowers?

As March draws to a close, the sky turns warmer, and the early rays of sunlight bring a touch of summer’s promise. You can already see the young green shoots unfolding. The color of new life invites you to reach out. Where have the purple and red buds of February gone? The trees now wear their new crowns of tender leaves, the dry bàng tree now has fresh green garments, like the light green of new springtime leaves. The early summer sun mixes with the lingering spring rains, nurturing the buds as they begin to thrive. The withered limbs of winter fade, and the trees prepare themselves for the sweetness of the seasons yet to come. March’s vibrant red signals the arrival of future joys, waiting to bloom.

As March walks through the streets, we will see bunches of pomelo flowers being carried by the vendors, their fragrance wafting through the alleys. The pomelo flowers, as pure as freshly fallen snow, grace each corner. Everywhere they go, the wind seems to fall in love with their scent. City dwellers adore the pomelo blossoms for their pungent, intoxicating fragrance. Some place them in their bedrooms or beside their tea tables to bring a touch of nature’s fragrance into their lives. Others might even toss a few flowers into water to wash their hair, leaving behind a lingering scent. Perhaps this is why the smell of pomelo flowers accompanies people through the streets, filling March with complete harmony.

So, what is it that makes March so unforgettable?

Essay by Lâm Trần

I often find myself yearning for March. I don’t quite know why. Perhaps it’s because in the fields, the rice plants are growing, and the girls are there. Those peaceful days filled with waiting, but also with the uncertainty of abundance or scarcity. It's a longing that quietly settles in my subconscious, a memory passed down from my grandmother and mother. Or maybe it's because March brings its own flowers?

In March, the flower petals of the wild, fragrant trees have fallen, leaving only a soft, cloud-like scattering on the ground at the edge of the house. These delicate clusters of flowers, so frail, attract mosquitoes and flies away. It brings both relief and a peculiar emptiness. I recall the sharp, smoky scent of the fire when my grandmother would gather the fresh branches of the wild trees and burn them in a pile every evening. The smoke drifted in the wind, swirling and clinging to the roof, carrying the scent of late spring that's impossible to confuse with anything else.

March, when the first hot rays of sun arrive, signals the season of the red silk-cotton flowers. Oh, this humble flower brings such deep feelings, stirring memories that pull at the heart. The old cotton tree quietly stands by the village river, basking in the sun and soaking up the rain, bringing warmth to March. I remember trailing behind my mother, going to the riverbank to wash vegetables, tossing weeds. In the twilight, just before the sun sets, the water shimmers with the last radiant beams, rippling with sediment, and then a single red flower floats by. The bright red of the silk-cotton flower in the water imprinted itself on my childhood like a vivid memory, and as I grew, every season of these flowers only deepened my love for my mother. I cherished the little village beside the river.

I also long for the seasons of hunger, when the vibrant flowers seemed to shimmer uncertainly in the breeze. I long for the old, moss-covered temple, where incense is burned and candles are lit twice a week. This temple is tied to legends from long ago. If you look at the roof, the moss appears so solemn, almost as though it’s telling stories from distant times.

In March, there is a flower that until now has only been heard about in stories and songs from faraway lands. But suddenly, one day, I see it everywhere along the streets and roads – the Bauhinia flower. Is this the flower that nature has bestowed upon us? Despite the blazing sun, the pouring rain, or the biting winds, it blooms quietly, without hesitation. Oh, this flower is humble yet proud! Like a girl from the mountains who arrives in the city streets, not at all lost, having become a flower of the countryside without anyone noticing. Perhaps people too need to learn from this flower; to thrive anywhere, to remain serene in any situation, to hide one’s personal sorrows yet live joyfully. To view life with clear eyes and to share compassion with others.

In March, I also remember the times when my father worked in the fields. He was always adept at catching crabs, fish, and frogs. In the evenings, he’d return with fresh fish, heavy baskets of crabs, and strings of frogs. Dinner was always lively and fragrant. Sometimes we couldn’t finish, and my mother would take the leftovers to the market, and before long, they would be gone. I was so grateful for the land, for all the herbs and plants it offered. It wasn’t just rice or potatoes; there were countless flavors, gifts from the wild, the mud, the deep waters.

During this off-season, my father still faithfully went to the market. His cart carried fresh produce, while the other side carried old goods. There were always local crops by the river – peanuts, beans, corn, sweet potatoes... He said they didn’t have money, so they traded for things. We never weighed anything, just estimated. The sellers were easy-going, and the buyers were just as carefree. There were times when, after a sale, the buyers insisted on inviting my father to dinner, and no matter how much he refused, he couldn’t say no. Over the years, he had become well-acquainted with those distant villages, even though they were separated by a river crossing. Once, I asked him why he went to the market, why he knew where to sell goods in those far-off villages. My mother said, 'It probably started in those leisurely March days, when the harvest was done, and the rice quietly waited for the new season. Your father is a hardworking man, always finding ways to keep busy.'

Eventually, the seasons of flowers will end. The anxiety, the fluttering anticipation in the eyes will fade. My mother no longer tends to the weeds by the river, and my father no longer crosses the river to the market. But at the end of spring, when the air is warm, and I hear the birds singing merrily in the distance, when I spot a tiny flame flickering from the trees, I feel a nostalgic longing. Those March days!

Nhất Mạt Hương

March. The month of blooming flowers and fresh leaves. It’s the month of sweetness, fragrance, and purity. After the spring rains have blanketed the fields, the grass has turned lush green, and the branches have started to bud. And then come the flowers. Flowers at the ground level, and flowers halfway to the sky... Flowers in bright, fresh reds, gentle shades of purple, delicate white clusters, and flowers hiding modestly within their leaves. Even without bright colors, these flowers still enchant, drawing us in with their fragrance, capturing our attention, and lingering in our thoughts… The March grapefruit flowers...

It seems that not many people notice when the grapefruit buds begin to bloom. Perhaps, it’s when the ripe grapefruits hang on the tree, waiting for the New Year, and tiny buds have quietly appeared behind the leaves… Or, after the fruiting season is over, the delicate branches start to sprout new shoots and buds… All I know is that in the breath of spring, the fragrance of the grapefruit flowers spreads through the air, across the village paths. The scent awakens in me the nostalgia of youth, a feeling lost in the chaos of everyday life...

The scent of grapefruit flowers is tied to my childhood, which was both challenging and beautiful. It brings back memories of spring mornings, sitting in the mud-walled house with a round window shaped like a hornet’s nest, as my siblings and I eagerly looked out to the garden. The rain pattered on the leaves, and drops fell from leaf to leaf, dancing and shimmering in the fresh green. After catching raindrops, we would breathe in the fragrance from the garden. The garden at my grandparents’ house was like many others in the village, filled with all kinds of plants: a lychee tree, a longan tree, a jackfruit tree, a couple of grapefruit trees, and some wild ginger plants... The lychees and longans were also in bloom, but their flowers were modest in both color and fragrance. Only the grapefruit flowers “had it all”! Their petals were pale white, the stamens golden, and their scent was intoxicating. When the buds ripened into pale blooms, the petals unfolded gracefully, like clouds swaying in the breeze. We, two mischievous kids, would pluck the grapefruit flowers and string them into garlands to wear as “flower princesses,” a childhood dream. But by the next morning, the flowers would wither, and we would regret not leaving them on the tree... The flowers may have faded, but their scent lingered. My sister would try preserving the grapefruit flowers in a jar to make perfume, hoping to capture the essence of their fragrance... That childhood, those dreams, those hopes were as pure and delicate as the grapefruit flowers. Transparent, pure, and soul-stirring, they stayed with us throughout life... At some point, they might have been overshadowed by the busyness of life, but all it takes is a hint of grapefruit flower fragrance to bring everything back to life, just as it was...

The scent of grapefruit flowers is now a part of my present life. In the crowded city, with limited space and people everywhere, it’s not easy to find a grapefruit tree to care for, admire, and inhale its fragrance... It’s easier to simply buy it... During early spring mornings, baskets and trays of grapefruit flowers are sold, their fragrance spreading generously in the spring breeze... The flowers are sold by weight, wrapped in plastic bags... or, more simply, in banana leaves... But once the grapefruit flowers are picked, they begin to lose their freshness, and their fragrance fades... Fortunately, I have a grapefruit tree in a pot on my third-floor balcony... I can watch the tender buds grow, admire the fresh white flowers, and breathe in their enchanting scent... And the green fruit begins to form, slowly ripening... A full cycle, just one year... In those peaceful moments, gazing at the flowers, my soul feels cleansed, light, and refreshed, just like the branches absorbing the breath of spring!

March. Clear skies. March. Flowers stretch their petals, sharing their fragrance... A gentle scent that quietly holds the love and longing that lingers in our hearts. The grapefruit flowers of March.

Phuong Thao
March 2022