Small and petulant,
Barely more than a whisper,
Inaudible, but to the branch that bears it, the bud begins to stir.
Ignorant and uncaring
Oblivious, if you will, to the cacophony that awaits it.
Time hurtles past.
Bursting forth, light explodes, senses overwhelmed.
Nothing can hide from the awakening chaos,
Nowhere to go.
Others try, shrivel to dust, spent.
They are the lucky ones.
Many more fall to the darkness below.
Captivated by the creeping mass.
Still others, blossoming; fluorishing; perfecting.
Eyes fixed on the prize,
Nebulous dreams, whispy nightmares.
Golden morning, time to pick you.
Take a bite, appetite for spring’s first taste swelling.
Juicy, yes, but not what I would expect for one so new.
Savoury, no, not at all…
Alas, for a certainty, yet not without merit.
Nourishment, at least.
It is what drives us onward.