Almonds in bloom remind me of semen. Their smell, their petals, everything I can think of just makes me think of lost loves. It took Paul Verlaine to point this out, and a mid-70's treatise on magick to point me to this particular poem.

They're spring flowers, but lost in the Northeastern American pageant of flowers in the Spring: not as early as crocuses, nor as showy as cherry or Bartlett Pear, I often wish they were planted more widely. The only tree I know was in the yard of an architect I didn't like, I was a renter, and he was rabid on "owners' rights" in the neighborhood. Wish I had more to say...