of nothing in particular

in essence (part II)

Yet, the most comforting and awe inspiring of flowers only remain for a few short days. Some are visited by hummingbirds and buzzing insects and some are left all alone, others bathe in the delicate rays of the young spring sun and some are accosted by bullets of pouring rain, some dance beneath the light of the moon and some look up and only see clouds. While many experience every influence of its surroundings at one point or another, eventually each petal shall fall to the ground and inevitably crumble to dust. The styles and filaments will shrivel beneath the weight of their stigmas and anthers and leave the ovaries naked and bare. Should the wombs have made seeds then the flesh will dry out to a papery shell until the fruits of their labors can be released to the elements, but the spring flower will never know what becomes of them. No, the flower withers before the depths of summer turn the damp earth into a celebration of life and vitality, before the mischievous frosts produce an abundance and unity foreign to the battles of spring. To watch its hues fade until the sun shines straight through the wilted head feels like drowning, like suffocating slowly and helplessly. No tears or laughter could summon back those first miraculous moments of wonder as the flower turned its face towards you, unashamed and unafraid. That vernal flower has been devoured by life, giving all it possesses and even more.

In essence, it's what I fear for you.