Quoth the Sun to the Flower

                  It’s winter now. The land is grey and the clouds are dark. The trees reach their naked, bony arms to greet me, but it’s only out of habit. Where once the land flushed green, it is now ghostly pale. Sometimes I think of you. I remember that spring morning when we first met. You were so shy then, but you’d later come out of your shell. What a sight you were! So tiny and frail. I was afraid you’d be scorched if I stared at you too hard. But, between the leaves, you hinted that you didn’t mind. Soon you were the one seeking me! It was my turn to be shy. I hid behind the clouds and peeked out when I thought you weren’t looking. But you always were. You were always there to find me. And in my darkest hours, your head hung low as you shared my grief. But in the morning, I would come looking for you and find that you were cozily wrapped up in yourself. And you’d turn to me and smile. The summer passed. The spring faded from your step. You weren’t acting like yourself. I knew something was wrong when you wouldn’t look at me anymore. I told you that the petals you lost didn’t matter. You were still beautiful to me. I whispered to the clouds and they showered you with what help they could, but it wasn’t enough.

Then that morning came. I went looking for you, but you weren’t there.

So, it’s winter now. Most days I can’t bring myself to venture outside. The clouds are dark and the earth is bare. The leaves have left the trees, but they still try to reach Heaven. And they’ve told me, those destitute trees, that I shouldn’t worry and that I shouldn’t be sad. Because, they tell me, just as their leaves will return, so too will I see you again.