June 28, 2010
By totoro GOLD, Acton, Massachusetts
totoro GOLD, Acton, Massachusetts
10 articles 0 photos 1 comment

The flower was an early bloomer, the first reminder that spring was coming and winter was melting away. Its petals, white and splotched with lavender, reached outward to grasp the precious rays of the sun. The golden ball was peeking out from behind the bleak clouds, still managing to shine among the dense mass of clouds. In a field of wilted grass, the flower was the only proof of vivacity. It seemed to absorb all the energy from its surroundings into its five supple petals.

I wished I were like that flower. But no, I was part of the endless pasture of watered down, soiled grass. I watched the flower at a distance, day and night, spreading further as I grew smaller, grew more insignificant.

I wanted to feel the warmth of the sun, too. I wanted to be superior, majestic, and beautiful. As I stared at the flower, its petals gently bouncing in the wind, I felt discouraged and envious of its beauty. Oddly, I also felt thankful for it all the same. I was able to witness actual beauty, the simplicity of it, and I felt honored by the mere presence of the flower.

On a particularly sunny day, I heard the booming noises of human footsteps. They violently trod on the grasses that had finally secured the courage to regain liveliness.

But the flower caused the feet to stop. One gaze was all it took. Immediately, the owner of the mighty feet stooped low to pluck the flower from its roots and tuck it away into his pocket. I watched with indignation as the sweet petals were wrinkled upon compression. The figure walked away, oblivious as to how much pain he had caused us.

Spring finally arrived and my grassy neighbors became greener, but I remained yellow and wilted. Without the flower, there was no longer any meaning of beauty, desire, or life. It wasn’t the aesthetic beauty that had made me admire the flower, but its vitality and poise.

But now, it is gone. Looking at the dry grassland around me, I have nothing to remind me of its existence. With one pluck, beauty became ephemeral.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.

Parkland Book