From where I’m standing and looking down, I’m taller than the tree. I can see the top of the tree. It’s covered with yellow flowers and they look so beautiful. I just want to scoop up all the flowers in my hand and hold it against my cheek. I can see all the branches sway when the wind blows. It sways in all the directions. The flowers seem to jingle then from pure pleasure and thrill and that’s when I feel like swaying too.
That tree seems so wise. It seems to tell me a story each time I look at it. About the thousands of flowers it has borne, the numerous birds it has sheltered among it’s boughs, the pieces of vagrant fabrics stuck too it but never too often, the leaves that have been shiny green on it and then fallen down, turned yellow and withered away into dust, the countless raindrops that have seeped and filtered through it drop by drop..
But what I’m more interested in are the flowers because they seldom fail to send me to the heights of ecstasy. They just make me so happy. My heart feels warm then. I hear the sound of cheerful bells each time they sway. They sway with so much joy. It’s as if they are yearning to kiss the wind each time it passes above it. They seem content to be their right there, on the top. The highest flower can see so much from up there.
I wonder now and then whether the tree thinks about me. Many a time I feel that the tree now welcomes me by making all the flowers on it dance with wild abandonment. It’s as if the tree derives pleasure from making me happy too.
Very soon summer will pass and the tree will turn bare with dusty brown leaves leaving only an illusion and a whispering silence that will haunt me and remind of the beautiful yellow flowers of a golden and brazen summer. The rustling will never stop echoing in my ears the promise of a more splendid yellow summer next year.
