Perennial malaise

September 1, 2011

The light fails, as it inevitably does.  The petals close, the flower droops with no warm caress to fuel its straining blossom.  It struggles through cracks in asphalt and sand, fed by frail dreams and a bittersweet hope that it will free itself from brittle roots to move proud.  On occasion, a bountiful rain falls to wash the dreary dust from its shy face, so that fresh and clean, its view is clear and its countenance lovely to behold.  But far too often it resides in a drought of spirit; its burgeoning leaves burnt and questing tendrils shriveled, leaving it rustling in a quiet despair, the stem trembling in trepidation, fearful of the perennial malaise finally suffocating its bloom.  It is simply the fault of a fateful wind, a defective seed in a ground unfit for prosperity.  If it crumbles, its petals pressed in the pages of a book as a fine memory, it is as it should be, and as it would be.  Yet what a beauty it could be if it would thrive.


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