The glory of cherry blossom is short lived:a week, two if the weather is not her usual moody self. Pilgrims flock to pay homage, enthralled by the burst of colors. The pilgrims become poets as they sing about the beauty and brevity of life, how they go together like the sound and silence of music.
Spring colors, sun-blanched white and velvety pink, please the eyes. But there is a sigh of pleasure in seeing the dull russet of the closed buds of cherry blossom in the crisp chill of autumn. It is not the vivacity of spring, but it is certainly not death. It is the color of life that accepts and refuses death by letting go, rebellion and acquiescence of the churning cycle of life.
Autumn, with her deeper and somber hues, earthy and swarthy, these last breaths of leaves, before they pirouette down to the fate of wind, feet, and rakes.
Loved your words Sam! Reminds me of that one writer, whose name I can’t remember at the moment, who recognized such a noble quality in a simple moth. How the very flame that attractive caused its untimely death, yet in the last moments of its dying breath it continued to fight for its survival. In her little essay she celebrated how even such a small creature fought death. Reminding us that it was the greatest force to contend with . . .