Clementine (Seasons May Change)

Sunlight. It greets us. 

Slowly emerging from the earth, we shake our slumber. It’s been so long since we last saw light. The last thing we remember was being somewhere cold, damp, but kept us safe, allowing us to prepare for the eventual bloom. 

My sisters and I look all around. Violet, Daffodil, and Tulip, all are present. Grass says hello to us as we wake up to a new world outside. The birds tell us of the strange behaviors humans have undergone since we went to sleep. I thought things would’ve been normal by now, but maybe I was wrong to assume such things. We always hear nature tell us about how the world’s changed, but how can we change it? We’re just plants that beautify the world. We don’t want to change. 

I feel the sun opening me. My delicate petals are ready to be tickled by the wind, to be kissed by Flora for returning vibrantly again. Seeing all of the colors around me brings a sense of normality. Indigo, gold, apricot are all around us. Too many colors for my senses to describe, but it’s like a painter’s dream canvas or the remnants of a rainbow exploding from a defective pot of gold. 

Maybe it’s just me though. 

Clementine. That’s my name according to a little girl who’s walking by. It’s strange to see humans wearing cloth on their faces and keeping themselves apart. That’s not the memory I usually have of people coming by this time last year. People are usually out and about, celebrating the warm weather and having fun but I’m not complaining about the lack of people for it’s a wonder I’m still around as so many of my sisters have been plucked, their petals shredded or eaten and thrown down when their lives were cut short. 

Others are put into people’s hair or placed onto tables for centerpieces of beauty. People don’t realize that flowers have feelings too. Our withering and decay is a sign of our grief of being ripped from the bosom of the Earth that made us. How would you feel being taken away from the source of life that provided you the chance to live in the first place? 

Yet, no one thinks about that when they look at us. People think we’re bountiful and there’s an endless supply and while that’s true, they never stop to think that no two flowers are the same. There can be the same two roses or irises or lilies, but each one of us is different in our own peculiar way. Like I’m Clementine. Another one of us could be called Stevie or Juliet or Virginia or whatever name comes to mind. There are male companions as well, but we don’t talk about those. 

Seems strange that my thoughts are all over the place. Perhaps that’s why I’m best as a flower for I can’t stay focused on anything for a particular amount of time. I’m just supposed to look pretty and blow alongside the wind. I wonder why that is. There’s so much about me that I don’t know and honestly, I may never know. 

Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like as a different flower. I’ve been the same form for countless eons, always morphing into the same form when I’ve reemerged every year. I know some of my companions have gotten to change either through accident or intentional plantings. One may have a new color palette or a new design or new height or whatever happens to befall them. Sometimes it works out better, but in others, it’s worse. It’s funny how nature controls us and can change us at its whim, without any warning or indication of what’s ahead. 

Now I feel myself fully stretch out and open. The morning sun’s so warm and secure. I feel safe, as though the sun’s a parent I never knew about until now. Mr. Sun. Papa Sun. There are countless names I can use to describe him. He could be my father for if I come from the earth then she’s my mother. The only way I could come forth is if the sun helped the earth bring me forth into bloom. They provide us with the nutrients needed to grow and the love for us to live. Without their love, we’d be like the poor dandelions, worthless weeds that choke the earth in hatred instead of loving it for giving us the chance we need to grow. 

It’s such a beautiful season. It’s my favorite season because it’s the season where it’s all light and colorful. One’s too hot, one’s too cold, and the final one kills us all. The trees help us with the seasons as many of them shelter us, protecting us as guardians when our parents fail to do so. It makes me happy to see the trees in bloom too, coated with little blossoms that resemble us for a brief moment. Dogwood, Cherry, Peach. All of them are little flowers dangling up above us, looking down and wondering why we’re the lucky ones before either blowing away or morphing into leaves, protecting us when it’s too hot and falling when we retreat underground, protecting us with enough warmth to make it to the next season. 

I imagine myself looking out over the cliff. I see Yosemite nearby. Yosemite’s such a beautiful place. The valley’s green as it can be and the forest floor’s full of woodland birds, flying back in and serenading us with their sweet songs again. The canyons greet us with their posing stone fortress but also feeling quite at home with the rest of us. 

None of us are complaining though. Being near such a special park is amazing. We’re far safer than most of our companions are in the vast world though. We’re just the lucky ones and yet even here, not all of us are so lucky. So close to a secure place to grow and thrive and yet, so far. I’m not complaining though. 

Some seasons may change, but I’m happy to stay the same for all of eternity.