Because spring once came

WARNING

——This poem is dedicated to the Polaris in my life

A lovely traveler passed through a landscape unseen by others, bringing with her exotic warm breezes that swept across parched fields, rustled through treetops, and rippled the lake into shimmering waves.
The fruit trees, enchanted by this beauty, hurriedly blossomed and bore fruit; birds in the forest scoured for the few remaining flowering branches, weaving them into a crown for her.
Strolling through the falling petals, the traveler, unable to refuse such generosity, plucked a few crimson fruits; feeling shy about taking without giving, she emptied her pockets of all the flower seeds she carried, scattering them over every cracked patch of earth.
Only the field remained barren, its heart filled with shyness and guilt—what could it possibly offer this delightful maiden?
Summoning all its strength, it urged the seeds to grow swiftly, hoping she might witness the blossoms before she left.
But the traveler was never meant to stay—the scenery was beautiful, the trees and birds most attentive, yet this was no place to call home.
She departed, leaving behind wistful fruit trees, birds, and the field.
The field’s flowers never reached her hands, though perhaps the next traveler would find a garden in full bloom.
Yet none grieved,
for spring had come.

Winter gave way to spring, autumn yielded to winter.
Fruits became saplings, fledglings took their first flights; tree rings thickened, and summer rains polished wings to a gleam.
In the garden the field had tenderly nurtured, the last chrysanthemum outlived its season, bare stems swaying in the cold wind.
No longer desolate, the land had seen the traveler’s seeds sprout through the seasons, each flower blooming in its turn as promised—drinking dawn’s dew, basking in morning sun, dancing in the breeze, resting under moonlight.
In spring, the field wove a crown of gardenias and hawthorn blossoms, white as the traveler’s dress.
In summer, it fashioned a basket of crape myrtle and hibiscus, though the hibiscus wilted by dusk, much like her fleeting visit.
In autumn, it dreamed of a bed sweet with osmanthus and aster, but the wind carried the fragrance away, indifferent to its longing.
The flowers, embracing their purpose, reveled in their brief lives, preparing in the soil for journeys yet to come.
The traveler never returned, unaware that her casually scattered seeds had grown into a garden, and the field never had its chance to offer its finest tribute.
Winter gave way to spring, autumn yielded to winter.
The field longed for snow, a warm blanket for the seeds below. Should the traveler ever revisit this hidden paradise, the garden would be worthy of her.
In the drizzle of early winter, it drifted into sleep, dreaming of October’s last dandelions riding the wind, chasing the blush on her cheeks.
“Aren’t you afraid the seeds won’t survive the cold?” asked the trees and birds, as the field lay bare once more.
“It’s alright. I’ve seen spring.”
For spring had come.