White

Sweet scent fills the air
Wind-blown white flurries drift by.
Blizzard of blossoms

The pear tree is always the first to bloom. She stands vainly, a glory of white when other trees sport only the meagerest green haze. Bees and wasps nuzzle her blossoms and, intoxicated with pollen and nectar, buzz drunkenly back to their nest. Waxwings whistle as they chow down on her blossoms. A robin proclaims her as part of his territory and defies anyone to take her from him. The heady smell of spring foretells the promise of autumn bounty.

The west wind arrives. It goes where it will, and everything in its way must survive or bow before it. It cares naught for beauty or vanity. The wind strips her blossoms, tears her dress to tatters, flings petals thither and yon, not caring where they fall. They gather in drifts or lie trapped in the grass, shreds and patches of past glory.

The wind departs. Her glory is gone. She is just an ordinary tree, clothed in green, humbled until next spring.

(This is my first attempt at haibun, a Japanese literary form combing prose and haiku.)

#Haibun #Haiku #PearBlossoms #Fiction #Spring #Poetry #Prose #MargaretGHanna