A bud! What joy! Fulfillment of life’s purpose.
by Jane Brunton
The never ending circle of life and death and life.
The bud is resolute.
Clinging fast to the branch; neither growing nor shriveling.
Is she opening? Is there a hint of pink under that brown shell?
But no. The promising pink is tinged with brown, and wrinkled.
Next evening she is lying on the soil of the pot.
Inside she is rotten to the core, putrid and black.
A broken promise, a tease, a cliffhanger no more.