All but one.
One crimson bud is picky. Specific. Today he moans, “The sun is too bright.” Tomorrow, “Leaves are too green.”
That is all. He simply CANNOT bloom until the PERFECT DAY COMES.
…
A doe arrives. The bush catches her attention.
Mmmm.
The buds are her favorites. She searches. She finds.
Oblivious, the bud contemplates. “The sky is too grey.”
That is all. The little bud is no more.
Wow. A poet and a drabbler. This one has is sweet and quirky and sad and I'm pretty sure there's a spiritual metaphor somewhere.
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