I stumbled upon a beautiful picture of flowers on a mountain side that made me miss home. It was too beautiful to leave alone.
Gazing down upon a mountain side, the sun lights upon a tie dye mess of colors. The colors blend together, swirl, swoop, and blotch across the hills. Orange fades into yellow, which suddenly bursts into violet, slowly melding into white, a swirl of pink, spots of blue. The psychedelic image confounds, meddling with the mind. And closer, see the different shades, the chartreuse and coral and periwinkle and magenta? See the little green buds, showing only glimpses into their hearts of gold and honey? They grow, pushing outward against the sea of distractions, making a place for themselves amongst all the others. Hoping for a place in the valley of colors. These buds, they say, are the beginning of today and the beginning of tomorrow, the beginning of all. These buds are the hope for a future, a new field of mesmerizing blooms.
“But we are today, and we will live for now,” taunt the blossoms. They dance and celebrate their lives, soon to be cut short by man or nature. They sway, teasing closely, almost touching, before deftly leaning away. They kiss, softly brushing against one another. They dance, filled with the fire of life and youth. Petals touch petals, veined leaves caress leaves.
The sun sets, and these flowers begin to sleep. Heads hang, limp like dolls; petals wilt, slowly curling up at the edges; leaves droop as if they were sleepy children; colors fade as the fire dies. All is black; all color is swept away. The sun, the fire of life, extinguishes. All is cold and black and dead.
A bird begins his call, warning of the impeding day. Pink streaks the sky as the fire starts again. Morning is bitter sweet for the buds, now blossoms.