Late morning light spills into the room in lazy ribbons, colored in hues of sweet lemon and tangy citrus. You blink, slowly, a sleepy haze not quite lifted from your mind.
Last night had been... loud, to say the least. The wind had raged, a violent beast of nature howling so hard the windows were vibrating in their panes, rain slamming against the glass like a furious drumbeat. The room had felt almost like it was shaking, and thunder cracked as lightning flashed overhead, blinding veins in the clouds lighting up the sky. There were no stars or moon. The rumbling, stormy gray had covered everything, a roiling, thrashing mass spread in such a way that it obscured the calm black above. Finally, after who knew how long, you'd fallen asleep to the sound of roaring winds and pounding rain.
But now, all is peaceful. Time seems more vague now, just a general sense as you settle in the moment. Gradually, you sit up, still not fully awake. The room bathes in a sort of mellow amber light, and the morning sun is still visible from your spot on the bed. Turning toward the window, you gaze outside to the cherry blossom tree that's been there for as long as you can remember. A bird sits on one branch, chirping good mornings to its friends, and the birdsong sounds like a welcoming greeting; music to wake up to, a pleasant way to start the day.
It's then that you realize the tree's branches seem a bit... more bare than usual. Only a few scattered buds remain, as opposed to the many blossoms that had populated the tree last time you checked.
You glance down a bit, and--ah, that's where all the flowers went. The ground beneath and surrounding the tree is carpeted by a soft layer of cherry blossoms, spreading out the farther from the tree they get. The rough weather last night must've shaken them all off. A bit of a shame, having all the flowers fall off so soon after they'd just bloomed.
But they'll grow back. They always do.
You snuggle back under the covers, unwilling to get up just yet. The clock on your desk reads 10:27. And... well, it is a Saturday. Rolling over onto your side, you turn your back and shut your eyes against the bright morning light filling the room.
You figure a few more minutes won't hurt.
YOU ARE READING
simple moments: a collection
Randoma collection of short scenes, probably won't have actual plot can be considered prose poetry, maybe flash fiction in some cases will probably all be in second person, if you don't like reading second person pov this is probably not for you this is p...
