mandragora
degenerate
In Autumn, as the colors of the world begin to change, I fall victim to the process myself.
My spaded leaves begin to wilt and my stem all but shrivels at the first chill, and the magic within my roots fades into the soil - drawn, like fresh blood on Winter's snow.
I do not dare to breathe the frigid air, humid and thick, and I wish desperately to bloom once more in the twilight hours of Summer, when all is golden and taxed.
But it is my time now, and I regret my humble life could not have offered more to the buzzing bumblebees who cared to stop by; nor to the voles and shrews and mice hurriedly searching for a bit of shade from the Summer sun.
I regret not having blown my petals wide and showered travelers with sweet pollen, so that my seed may be carried on to lands anew and undisturbed and flourish without fear or worry. I regret I could not relinquish myself to the Summer dances, or the Autumn harvest, when it was time. I regret not tangling my roots into the dainty bloom's beside me, my last chance.
I regret, hanging my bulb in the withering sunlight, as the cold winds rip away my crumpled petals one-by-one.
I regret.
And, now, I've no choice and nothing to survive me.
What have I been doing all this time but sway peacefully, alone, in the meadow? Among the roots of a forsaken elder tree, sickly and black, gnarled and decrepit? Perhaps that should have been my first clue, that I was not long for this world, as I droop ever closer toward the frosted earth.
I did not dare to soak in the cold sunlight, nor breathe its air, and now my wishes to remain, to put right the transgressions made upon myself, shall go unfulfilled and forgotten to time - where I will diminish to naught but rotted stems, supper for the worms.
Had I truly done nothing but waste away in the shadow of a dying tree, for all my short life? Should I consider it an honor, to bask in the presence of the once mighty and virescent? I cannot say, I do not wish to, and so shall I remain.
Until at last Winter arrives, on the final day, and the vagaries of my contemplation render me an oblivious fool to what darkness takes me in the night. My stem snaps when the moon is high and the bats have come out to play, shrieking in the naked canopy above - a song of lament, for those willing to listen.
I am tired, and Winter is taxing. It is time.
I wonder, if I shall make the same mistakes in the next life.
Oh, but I so dearly hope not.
My spaded leaves begin to wilt and my stem all but shrivels at the first chill, and the magic within my roots fades into the soil - drawn, like fresh blood on Winter's snow.
I do not dare to breathe the frigid air, humid and thick, and I wish desperately to bloom once more in the twilight hours of Summer, when all is golden and taxed.
But it is my time now, and I regret my humble life could not have offered more to the buzzing bumblebees who cared to stop by; nor to the voles and shrews and mice hurriedly searching for a bit of shade from the Summer sun.
I regret not having blown my petals wide and showered travelers with sweet pollen, so that my seed may be carried on to lands anew and undisturbed and flourish without fear or worry. I regret I could not relinquish myself to the Summer dances, or the Autumn harvest, when it was time. I regret not tangling my roots into the dainty bloom's beside me, my last chance.
I regret, hanging my bulb in the withering sunlight, as the cold winds rip away my crumpled petals one-by-one.
I regret.
And, now, I've no choice and nothing to survive me.
What have I been doing all this time but sway peacefully, alone, in the meadow? Among the roots of a forsaken elder tree, sickly and black, gnarled and decrepit? Perhaps that should have been my first clue, that I was not long for this world, as I droop ever closer toward the frosted earth.
I did not dare to soak in the cold sunlight, nor breathe its air, and now my wishes to remain, to put right the transgressions made upon myself, shall go unfulfilled and forgotten to time - where I will diminish to naught but rotted stems, supper for the worms.
Had I truly done nothing but waste away in the shadow of a dying tree, for all my short life? Should I consider it an honor, to bask in the presence of the once mighty and virescent? I cannot say, I do not wish to, and so shall I remain.
Until at last Winter arrives, on the final day, and the vagaries of my contemplation render me an oblivious fool to what darkness takes me in the night. My stem snaps when the moon is high and the bats have come out to play, shrieking in the naked canopy above - a song of lament, for those willing to listen.
I am tired, and Winter is taxing. It is time.
I wonder, if I shall make the same mistakes in the next life.
Oh, but I so dearly hope not.