The Scarlet Flower and the Rain
In a meadow wild and free, where golden sunlight danced on swaying stems and clouds floated lazily across blue skies, a scarlet flower bloomed for the very first time.
She opened from her bud with violet eyes gazing upward, dazzled by the brightness of the world. Around her, the air buzzed with life — bees hummed, breezes whispered, and sunlight scattered like laughter across the land. Other scarlet flowers, older and wiser, stood nearby, each on its own stalk, some just blooming, others fully open to the sky.
They smiled at her gently, their petals fluttering in the breeze. She was the youngest among them — wide-eyed, trembling slightly with the thrill of discovery.
Morning dew clung to her delicate petals, cool and fresh. It slid down her cheeks like nature’s own kiss. As she twirled slowly with the breeze, she noticed a white flower nearby — old, with thick, scarred petals that had weathered many seasons.
He smiled at her. His scent was strong and earthy, filled with the wisdom of time.
“Hello, young one,” he said in a voice soft as falling snow.
The scarlet flower giggled as another drop of dew trickled across her face. “What is this?” she beamed.
“That,” said the white flower, “is a dew drop, child.”
“It’s wonderful!” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” he said, “when it comes in spring.”
“Is there a time when it’s not wonderful?” she asked.
The white flower paused, as if listening to distant memories.
“In a season before yours… there comes the rain,” he said. “Not dew, but torrents that fall heavy — so heavy, even the strongest petals struggle to hold on. Winds that roar louder than trees can withstand. The skies flash with fire and rumble with fury. It is not gentle like spring.”
Her eyes widened. “Rain? Thunder? Fire in the sky?” Her petals quivered with awe. “When will I see it?”
The old flower looked at her with quiet sorrow. “You won’t,” he said. “You are a spring child. You came after the rains. You will return to the earth before they come again. Such is the way of things.”
The young scarlet grew quiet. Around her, her family of flowers bloomed peacefully — untouched by storms, their lives gentle and bright. But her heart longed for more. She looked up at the sky, turning gold as evening approached, and made a silent prayer:
Let me see the rain.
But not with words — with scent, with stillness, with the trembling of her small stem. A prayer born out of innocence. From a deep, aching desire to know life in its fullest
And nature listened.
The sky darkened. The wind grew sharp. Clouds gathered like shadows. Lightning cracked open the heavens, and thunder rolled across the plains.
“What did you do?” the old white flower whispered.
The older flowers curled in fear. Then the rain fell — not drops, but rivers. The young scarlet bent low, her petals battered by the storm. The wind screamed. The rain tore through the field.
She saw petals torn from their stems, strong trees bending to survive. She clung to her stalk, wishing for it to end.
And eventually, it did.
Dawn broke, soft and golden once more. The meadow glistened with dew. But where joy once bloomed, now only stumps remained. The young scarlet looked down — half her petals were gone. Her beauty was torn, her body aching.
Beside her, the old white flower swayed gently, one petal left.
He whispered, “You are a spring flower, child. The rain was never meant for you.”
She looked around at what was lost. Her longing for something not meant for her had taken what was.
Then, quietly, she understood.
She looked at what remained of herself, and then to the sky where the sun rose again, patient and golden. The breeze was soft once more, but she no longer swayed with it. Something inside her had changed.
“I longed for what wasn’t mine .....I forgot the wonder of what I already had.”
A drop of dew slid down her torn petal — not from the sky this time, but from within. 🥀
She opened from her bud with violet eyes gazing upward, dazzled by the brightness of the world. Around her, the air buzzed with life — bees hummed, breezes whispered, and sunlight scattered like laughter across the land. Other scarlet flowers, older and wiser, stood nearby, each on its own stalk, some just blooming, others fully open to the sky.
They smiled at her gently, their petals fluttering in the breeze. She was the youngest among them — wide-eyed, trembling slightly with the thrill of discovery.
Morning dew clung to her delicate petals, cool and fresh. It slid down her cheeks like nature’s own kiss. As she twirled slowly with the breeze, she noticed a white flower nearby — old, with thick, scarred petals that had weathered many seasons.
He smiled at her. His scent was strong and earthy, filled with the wisdom of time.
“Hello, young one,” he said in a voice soft as falling snow.
The scarlet flower giggled as another drop of dew trickled across her face. “What is this?” she beamed.
“That,” said the white flower, “is a dew drop, child.”
“It’s wonderful!” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” he said, “when it comes in spring.”
“Is there a time when it’s not wonderful?” she asked.
The white flower paused, as if listening to distant memories.
“In a season before yours… there comes the rain,” he said. “Not dew, but torrents that fall heavy — so heavy, even the strongest petals struggle to hold on. Winds that roar louder than trees can withstand. The skies flash with fire and rumble with fury. It is not gentle like spring.”
Her eyes widened. “Rain? Thunder? Fire in the sky?” Her petals quivered with awe. “When will I see it?”
The old flower looked at her with quiet sorrow. “You won’t,” he said. “You are a spring child. You came after the rains. You will return to the earth before they come again. Such is the way of things.”
The young scarlet grew quiet. Around her, her family of flowers bloomed peacefully — untouched by storms, their lives gentle and bright. But her heart longed for more. She looked up at the sky, turning gold as evening approached, and made a silent prayer:
Let me see the rain.
But not with words — with scent, with stillness, with the trembling of her small stem. A prayer born out of innocence. From a deep, aching desire to know life in its fullest
And nature listened.
The sky darkened. The wind grew sharp. Clouds gathered like shadows. Lightning cracked open the heavens, and thunder rolled across the plains.
“What did you do?” the old white flower whispered.
The older flowers curled in fear. Then the rain fell — not drops, but rivers. The young scarlet bent low, her petals battered by the storm. The wind screamed. The rain tore through the field.
She saw petals torn from their stems, strong trees bending to survive. She clung to her stalk, wishing for it to end.
And eventually, it did.
Dawn broke, soft and golden once more. The meadow glistened with dew. But where joy once bloomed, now only stumps remained. The young scarlet looked down — half her petals were gone. Her beauty was torn, her body aching.
Beside her, the old white flower swayed gently, one petal left.
He whispered, “You are a spring flower, child. The rain was never meant for you.”
She looked around at what was lost. Her longing for something not meant for her had taken what was.
Then, quietly, she understood.
She looked at what remained of herself, and then to the sky where the sun rose again, patient and golden. The breeze was soft once more, but she no longer swayed with it. Something inside her had changed.
“I longed for what wasn’t mine .....I forgot the wonder of what I already had.”
A drop of dew slid down her torn petal — not from the sky this time, but from within. 🥀
