I walk by the same modest tree, a few times a day – a species I haven’t seen in my native desert land but enjoy as a bittersweet reminder of all the rain – and watch gradually, its metamorphosis that reveals to me much more than just the literal sequencing of time. It starts as a plain tree, tear shaped bottle-green leaves dropping uniformly from a body the color of milk with not quite enough syrup mixed in.
Each day the same – tree, leaves, tree, leaves, until all at once as if overnight evolution were a possibility, flowers. White, too, but much lighter than the body; like cream whipped just a few seconds too long. A tree built by symmetry, the tear shaped leaves mirrored then multiplied in the petals that cling to their seeded centers.
About days and time: as they pass, we tend not to notice until they’re already gone. The white of the flowers now blushed sunset pink on the tips – a welcome change in vibrancy, highlighting the stark contrast of hues and Bodhisattva – I could almost feel the radiation heat. The root of the tree was exploding to the very seams of the pedals, flush with the understanding that it will always meet mirrors edge; like the very core of the tree was bleeding to be seen, a red giant suspended in the eye of a storm. A heart kept on such fair sleeve.
More days, more time – I almost don’t recognize the flowers. The ends are curled with age and now there’s just dried blood on bone; like dirt on the face of a once pure child, the white pedals wilt with amber remorse for burning too bright. Such a cycle, I think and marvel at the beauty in the consequence of an accomplished life. The stale skeletons rattle on the tree to remind me that nothing worth loving could ever last.
As with Seasons, so too – the white dwarf fades to black in the inevitability of an ended life. But promise not to mourn, it begs, and implodes its seeded center to begin anew