Outside my bedroom stands a glorious cherry tree. I call it the cotton ball tree, for in the Spring it becomes a round white fluff ball balancing on a dark gray leg. When viewed from the other side of the pond, it receives grand compliments like the belle of the ball, dressed in regal finery.
She is the first to don her green as the winter wanes, preparing and fueling herself to burst forth with voluptuous magnificence. Watching the tightly wrapped buds as they expand in preparation to expose themselves, beckons one to be patient. Then it happens, the soft white nearly translucent petal leans back, inviting the others to join her, telling them it is safe to open up.
It is a grand party, they dance and wave on the currents of seasonal change. Quietly role modeling for the nearby trees that the time is now, a merry invitation to play.
I am awed by their extreme courage and strength, such delicate baby soft petals do not give way to the last ambushes of winters gusts. They stay perched in their efflorescence perfection. I am mesmerized by their unabashed elegance and enraptured by their swirling soft perfume.
The time of fading looms. They cling to the final glory days. Intense gales with blurring rain try to undress the dignified queen of trees. The fair ivory petals do not forsake her, they stay, grasping to the last days of their eminence.
A blanket of white bares the truth, fading with quiet acquiescence they fall. Knowing that their time in the sun has come to an end. They exalted the rising of Spring, tempting others to brave the change, now with extreme fortitude, they accept death.
I sit in admiration of their unpretentious valor, for they did not try to burst on the scene before they were welcomed and they do not linger longer than they were invited. There is a resplendent acceptance that life cycles, birth, life, death.., birth, life, death….
As the sun worships their last moments in the cradle of leaves, I too stand in adoration of their benevolent presence and passing. Our time shall come again on the ebb and flow of seasons. I thank you humbly dear blossom for the reminder that everything has its season, blooming in perfection with the raw truth of impermanence and fragility in the presence of time.