I see the tightness of the green, pushing off the stem. I watch it reach out, trying it’s best to grasp any sliver of sunlight. Then slowly, but surely, a bulging arrowhead begins to take its shape. When it can’t hold itself in any longer, the yellow that was once rays of golden heat bursts out. Yellow blooms splay themselves open and sing glory of what’s to come.
Then all seems death and dormancy.
At last, a small green dot, much like the head of a pin shows itself.
Growth is slow and barely noticeable day to day. There’s a little more roundness, a little lightening of the hue and then it all seems to stop.
After a while, though, there is that tinge. It’s the sun breaking through again, this time in glorious sunset of palest orange. The sunset burns into a red flame that cannot be resisted.
Like a moth I’m drawn to it, I have to restrain myself. When the fire seems to be turning to molten lava I know it is time.
The bloom has become the fruit. The fruit comes with its reward by being the sacrifice. To be enjoyed it must be consumed. But isn’t that the point?
Linking up with Lisa-Jo and her merry band of writers. It's not always pretty (ahem, sorry about this one), but it's always for five minutes of abandon and community and encouragement. So, this will get added to the list and I'll comment on at least the one who linked up before me. Join us, won't you?