The Flower

As a bud sprouts, it pokes it head above the warm wet earth to grasp its first golden rays of sunlight. The sun’s clarity wipes away the gravel from the bud and reveals to it, an emerald field of grass blades and the thicket of a surrounding old dark forest made up of living, huddled, tree trunks. The bud says ‘hi’ to a whimsical butterfly as they brush against each other, paths crossing for their first time. Soon, the day recedes, the night air blankets the sky and the moon gets a turn to greet the new bud. Fireflies light up the quiet purple air, and stars circle overhead—in a dance that they have repeated day after day and year after year. The bud learns quickly, and within a month, it is ready to show its magnificence. Days and nights pass by teaching the sprout the many forms that exist within its tiny world. The vibrant sprout is ready to mature and to show its neighbors who he really is. Its verdant capsule withers and peels back as bright orange petals unfurl. The adolescent is coming to his own. In only a few days, he is beautiful. He stands straight and erect, letting his blossoms extend without constraint. Stretching, he reaches for the soft breeze, individuated and unafraid. Bees nuzzle in his kingdom, and a radiant smell surrounds his boarders proclaiming that the time of the flower lives. His next of kin cling to friendly animals, big and small, and some are taken by the late summer breeze. The trees around acknowledge his triumph for the moment, waiting patiently for what is next to come. The golden flower has triumphed and expanded his life, he has been strong and stoic—his ultimate expression before retreating back to the Earth. Now, he tires and droops. Slowly, slowly drooping more and waning down without reticence. He is as a sage who understands that the end of all must come. He shrivels, but his sophisticated translucent flame burns in reminiscence of the Leo days. The air gets bitter. He lies down. Content that his kin are nuzzled below the cold earth where the heat from summer remains. They lie dormant. And the old sprout humbly dies as the winter snow trickles down from heaven and blankets the earth. The trees huddle still. They await the coming spring, keeping each other company in the frozen mire until they may say ‘hi’ to a new flame—whose ancestor was their venerate king, a beacon of heavenly light that shone with the coming of the sun. A deep solemn respect for the holy line keeps a moment of silence all winter in that meadow.

But hark! Green is sprouting again, shhhhh—be gentle for its childhood. Be kind.