The spring flowers repent of growing too soon as the warmth of the summer breeze withers their brilliant colours .. as they scream in agony.. they remember the year before .. the same suffering .. and the same beauty .. not a regret in their petals as the withered bouquet once again flitters into the wind ..
until next year .. or so they think .. as the brush fire consumes the buds they bloomed from ..
and returned to the earth from whence they came .
until next year .. or so they think .. as the brush fire consumes the buds they bloomed from ..
and returned to the earth from whence they came .
