She stood there, her branches spread wide, green as an emerald yet with vivid grassy yellowish hint. She was young.
The blood of earth flowed through her veins, under her skin, among the rough threads of her body. She drank willingly and she drank reluctantly, and waters transformed in juices, and juices into fibers as she grew and grew, knowing no other fling in her days, which passed swiftly as little birds by her side. And the delight it was, boiled and brewed by sun, her ultimate, only and sole delight.
Her branches she spread forward, her leaves she densified and thickened, as force and hot sweetness were overfilling her body, and she needed to make this body greater, to fill it even more.
Yet one day she discovered it wasn’t enough. The delight of having sunshine and waters inside brewed into happiness. And her body couldn’t contain this new feeling without changing into something new.
Buds of something else than the leaves. The flowers. She popped them almost unkn