Misty Ridge Musings

I walked.
Oblivious.
The sky Blue, definite, unseen.
Seeing only ground, gravel.
Big boots trudging.
A camellia nestled in my palm
My offering to Ancient Oak.
Clear Red bruised purple,
Hurt by a wind that yesterday
Caressed her face, my face
By night grown harsh.

I wondered,
Does the camellia blossom cry
Knowing her beauty is fading,
her lover-gardener looking elsewhere,
the other blossoms freshly opened.
When her head bows, petals withering,
Is she in bliss
recognizing her impermanence
Or crying with grief?