Born of bitter wood.
She entered the world without awareness of being seen. She flowered when the season moved through her, petals unfolding in disciplined splendor, symmetrical, intact, each one sufficient on its own. Nothing in her asked to be believed. Everything was a consequence, nothing was an intention.
Fragrance traveled ahead of the branches, and people learned her generosity before they learned themselves beneath it. Praise gathered easily; stories followed. What was repeated began, slowly, to replace what was seen. Words moved from mouth to mouth like pollen weakened by distance, and what had been offered sincerely returned to her reshaped, sharpened, convenient, useful to someone else...
She felt the change without naming it. Her fruit was judged before ripening, her silence interpreted, her stillness borrowed for meanings she had never held or believed in. Reputation settled where truth once was, heavier than the bark, impossible to shed. So sweetness withdrew inward, conserving itself without resistance, as water does when the surface is no longer safe.
One winter, a plum fell unseen and split against the stones. The flesh darkened quickly, misread even in decay, while the pit remained sealed, smooth, dense and indifferent to interpretation. No one noticed it, but rain found it, and time did what time always does.
When spring returned, she bloomed again and so did the seed become a seedling, no longer toward the crowd, no longer away from it. The petals opened according to their own law, their own direction, teaching nothing, correcting nothing. Complete again, quiet , understanding that what endures deception does not argue with it, and what is real requires no witness to remain whole.
[media=https://youtu.be/q0OTZB-V6gg]
Fragrance traveled ahead of the branches, and people learned her generosity before they learned themselves beneath it. Praise gathered easily; stories followed. What was repeated began, slowly, to replace what was seen. Words moved from mouth to mouth like pollen weakened by distance, and what had been offered sincerely returned to her reshaped, sharpened, convenient, useful to someone else...
She felt the change without naming it. Her fruit was judged before ripening, her silence interpreted, her stillness borrowed for meanings she had never held or believed in. Reputation settled where truth once was, heavier than the bark, impossible to shed. So sweetness withdrew inward, conserving itself without resistance, as water does when the surface is no longer safe.
One winter, a plum fell unseen and split against the stones. The flesh darkened quickly, misread even in decay, while the pit remained sealed, smooth, dense and indifferent to interpretation. No one noticed it, but rain found it, and time did what time always does.
When spring returned, she bloomed again and so did the seed become a seedling, no longer toward the crowd, no longer away from it. The petals opened according to their own law, their own direction, teaching nothing, correcting nothing. Complete again, quiet , understanding that what endures deception does not argue with it, and what is real requires no witness to remain whole.
[media=https://youtu.be/q0OTZB-V6gg]
