|My Weeping Cherry|
But not yet. The roar of a hundred buzzing bees greets you at my front door. We stand there, risking the stings, just to hear it and gaze upon the blooms.
A neighbor comes to the door, says nothing, and merely points to the blossoms and puts his hand over his heart and closes his eyes.
You don't need words.
Later, the storm does indeed strip the leaves. We will have to wait one whole year to see them again.
|Stripped in the Storm|
It was glorious for that one day, and now, I turn my attention to other blooms. There's a wild violet at my feet. I see it differently--treasure it, cherish it--because my weeping cherry taught me it might be gone tomorrow.
Journal: What would I treasure more if I knew it'd be gone tomorrow?