I am concealed, habitually secretive in nature, appearing
austere and utterly forgettable. But once a year, I resolve to bloom: Spectacular
whitish pink flowers burgeoning all over my fragile, yet sturdy branches.
Flowers as smooth as silk and cream as you run your face across my delicate petals.
An intoxicating fragrance saturates the early spring air, as you reach into the sunrise to pluck an aromatic blossom from one of my strong wooden limbs.
But I never last. Blink once and I vanish. I cannot
sustain life for long, as it is simply not my nature. My flowers fade and wilt as
they slowly drift to the ground and litter the grass around me. My branches
turn brittle and weak; a harsh wind will cause them to sway wildly in the wind.
I am at peace with this, because the untrained eye refuses to see how strong my
trunk is and how deep my roots run. I am anything but weak.
I stand stoic and barren, stubbornly unable to be coaxed
back to vivacity. You cannot nurture me, as I am not dead. Rather,
I am on my own time, serenely waiting for the right moment to once more display my
magnificence. Only I know what is inside of me, and I am steadfast in my refusal
to let others see so easily into the essence of my being. Allow me to disappear just as quickly
as I arrived, and maintain the conviction that I will come around again.
Patience, patience, patience.
