Tulips are in bloom in Kunming, and they are truly stunning.

Saturday, February 22, 2025, Sunny As I exited the subway station, the spring sunshine filtered through the branches and leaves of the jacaranda trees, casting a delicate net on the ground. From afar, I saw a large swathe of purple clouds floating among the towering metasequoia trees of Yuanmingyuan Park. As I approached, I realized it was a sea of tulips swaying in the spring breeze. The moment I scanned my ticket, a warm message popped up on the electronic screen: "Today's 8,845th visitor, please enjoy your limited-edition spring." Walking along the shaded path deeper into the flower zone, the air was filled with a subtle blend of damp earth and floral fragrance. The white spire of the Dutch pavilion pierced the waves of flowers, and the tulip bulbs hanging from the corridor resembled strings of wind chimes. The morning dew rolling on the leaves refracted a rainbow halo. Crouching down for a closer look, I saw the outermost petals formed the delicate shape of a wine glass, while the inner petals unfolded like silk, the golden stamens glistening with a honey-like sheen. Turning a corner, I encountered a rainbow-colored flower wall. Orange-red, goose-yellow, and snow-white tulips were arranged in a staggered pattern. Motion-sensing spray devices were hidden among the flowers, and as I reached out, a fine mist enveloped me with the fragrance of flowers. A girl in a Hanfu dress stepped back with her SLR camera, her skirt brushing against the purple waves. The sound of the shutter and the buzzing of bees intertwined into a spring symphony. The art installation area on the west side transported me into a fairy tale world. A giant tulip sculpture housed an accordion. As the wind blew, the petals slowly opened and closed, playing the melody of "Castle in the Sky." Several silver-haired elders sat on benches fiddling with their phones, their lenses focused on the crystal-clear flower buds in the sunlight. The reflections on their screens appeared even more dreamlike than the real thing. An elderly gentleman took out a sketchbook and his pen rustled as he outlined the curves of the petals, the edges of the paper slightly curled. The afternoon sun grew lazy, and I rented a parasol and sat in the picnic area under the cherry blossom trees. On the spread-out beige linen were Yunnan small-grain coffee and flower cakes. At the next table, a blonde tourist was teaching her daughter how to make dried flower specimens with tulips. A staff member in a tie-dye apron pushed a cart past, the cart filled with freshly picked cut flowers, dew still clinging to the pale purple petals. As dusk settled, I arrived at the light show. Tens of thousands of tulips cast a starry blue-violet light on the ground. With the ebb and flow of the music, the sea of flowers transformed into a flowing galaxy. White lights outlined the contours of Monet's "Water Lilies," then suddenly morphed into Van Gogh's swirling brushstrokes. An elderly man shakily held up his phone to record the scene, the light spots on the screen dancing in his wrinkles, as if a spring night dream from his youth. On my way out of the exhibition area, I made a detour to the gift shop. Glass cabinets displayed bookmarks and sachets made of dried flowers. I picked up a single-stem tulip specimen. Morning dew still clung to the metal wire-wrapped stem. The label indicated the latitude and longitude coordinates of its origin in the Netherlands. As I left the park, the evening breeze brushed against my face, and the fragrance of flowers tucked in my sleeves gradually blended with the city's night breeze. I suddenly recalled a sentence from "The Little Prince" – perhaps there are five thousand flowers just like yours in the world, but only the one in your garden is tamed by you.