Right before my eyes

When I first looked up at the plum tree this morning, it had blossoms, like a girl partly-dressed.

A couple hours later, it was rich with blossoms, like a woman ready to party.

Do trees break out that fast?

I do not know.

But it was a hot day here, a day when women in the city chose short skirts and sundresses. Apparently, spring has arrived.

We have had very little rain this winter. We have a drought. Those who love winter sports can't find enough snow at Tahoe to satisfy their desire.

But little plants in my backyard are choosing to make their less flashy statements. They claim that spring is here, this year.

So spring is when we fall in love, something I first experienced a half century ago.

Somehow I think that spring is no longer what it used to be, for someone like me. Now it is nothing more than another excuse for a tree or a woman to do what she is going to do anyway, whether I notice her or not.

Because she couldn't care less that I am still here, watching, hoping, waiting.

In the end, as a mere scribe, with whatever value that entails, if spring has indeed arrived, I admit I feel no hope, no expectation of new love. The beauty is lovely, but it is not for me. The cycle goes on, for the benefit of others. For me, the air feels cold, and the moment feels over.

I already feel the heavy sadness when the over ripe plums will drop, rotten to the dirt below. No one will catch and save them. No one will taste their sweet juices.
Because time is relentless. And fruits uneaten rot on the ground, joining our ancestors building the only thing that ever lasts, which is the soil beneath our feet. The bodies of our ancestors.

You and I will be there soon enough. And then, the blossoms will once again break out, as if none of us ever understood what this all is really about,

-30-