Falling blossom

Days of beautiful sun are confusing. Spring throws off her winter coat, heavy with mud and grey gutter water, and dances naked in the light. But the breeze makes her shiver and hide for warmth amongst the fresh green leaves.

I sat in a garden sheltered from the wind, and a tiny white flower fell on my page. Nothing shook the branch. It was, I suppose, a perfect suicide that made the little blossom throw itself from its tree. It was joined by another, and brought with their death a fragrant incense to my lap.

We sit now astride the seasons, shrug off the weight of winter and rub the sleep from our eyes. But wait, or like the eager Spring we will tremble in the last of winter’s winds.