The Death of a Flower

Have you ever witnessed the death of a flower? It doesn't happen instantly; some people don't even notice, some people don't care, and some people have the fortune of never seeing it. I think its a hard feeling to describe. How do you put to words the beauty of a single flower? The way she's birthed, from beneath the earth she rises. With tender love and care she grows, until one day when the sun is beaming down, she blooms. Colours you've never seen before sparkle and shine in the sun and smile in the rain as it refreshes the earth around her. When the cool breeze of summer whisks her this way and that, like she's dancing to the song of mother earth, you can't help but be enraptured by her. The way she enjoys this new life, beautiful doesn't begin to express the passion one single flower brings to this world.

But then the sun starts coming around more and more infrequently; and the sprinkle of the rain turns into a downpour. The musical of the wind turns cold and bitter and that flower starts to feel burned. "What happened to us?" she calls to the sun as the storm clouds roll in. But the sun keeps its silence and turns its back on the flower. And as she drowns in the pool of water at her feet, she cries. As the days grow shorter and the nights colder I think nothing can possibly save her from this dark winter. And so I take a pot and I pick her up out of that frozen earth. I bring her inside where its warm, I try and shine a bright light on her and give her all the love I can muster, but my water is not the soft pitter patter of the rain, and my bright light is only a shadow of the sun.

When I gaze upon her beautiful colours now, her head hangs just a little bit lower. She no longer gazes up at the sun like she used to. Too hurt and scarred by the cold winter months, but no one hears her weep in that dark place. Forsaken by her sun she is left with a shadow of how it used to be. This constant reminder of what summer felt like, but can never be and she feels stifled. Every day when I gaze upon the flower that used to thrive and smile and laugh and be, I am reminded of how cruel this world can be. And so I watch her, as she withers, as her soul cries. As she longs for the freedom that was stolen from her, I watch her die, wondering if Spring will ever come back to save her.

But no one seems to notice. No one sees her weep in that dark place. Her soul calling out. No one see's her dying. Not like I do. And I can't save her. How useless. I can't even save one flower. And so I continue to shine that shadow and I continue to share that water, and I continue to watch her wither; waiting for Spring to come, and hoping when it does, its not too late.