A dear friend had once said that the trees, filled to the brim with blossoms, reminded her of brides.
I can understand why.
The branches are overflowing with flowers now, scattering the ground below with tiny ivory and pink petals. Every time the breeze drifts through the lazy limbs above my head they scatter into the air and leave their alluring scent on my clothes. My hair is decorated in their fragile forms. I try my best not to disturb their landing as they swirl around me.
The trees hum a melody off of their bark as bees busy themselves from blossom to blossom. It might be intimidating to some, seeing so many flying just above their noggin, but I'm quite used to it. They mind my space and I, in turn, give them theirs.
It's funny that in all this pollen and dirt and grass that my allergies don't bother me a bit. I can breathe in deep and feel nothing blocking my lungs. I'm glad I suffer from different things instead. I constantly try and lose myself in the caress of the wind and whatever warmth the winter sun can bring.
This moment is finite.
In no more than a week, maybe just a bit more...
All the blossoms will be gone.
Replaced with hearty green leaves, any trace of the petals on the orchard floor will be cleared away in the next flooding. I hold onto this precious moment and the comfort that it provides. My makeshift snowstorm sails around me and dots my clothes once again.
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