Because the final wisps of winter’s chill dissipated, the timber and shrubs across the backyard started to stir, their branches bursting forth with a vibrant tapestry of shade. Among the many earliest and most placing of those spring bloomers have been the crabapple timber, their branches heavy with delicate, pink and white silk-like flowers. The sight was nothing wanting breathtaking, as if the very heavens had descended to earth, bestowing upon the panorama a mild, ethereal magnificence.
The crabapple timber, with their slender branches and gnarled trunks, stood like sentinels, their limbs outstretched as if in welcome to the returning heat of the solar. And on these branches, like a thousand tiny ballerinas, danced the flowers, their pink and white petals swaying gently within the breeze. The impact was virtually otherworldly, as if the timber had been remodeled right into a residing, respiration murals, crafted by some invisible hand to thrill and encourage.
As the attention wandered throughout the scene, it was drawn inexorably to the sky above, an excellent blue that appeared to vibrate with an interior mild. The solar, now a burning gold, solid its rays upon the flowers, imbuing them with a comfortable, golden glow that appeared to emanate from inside. It was as if the very essence of spring itself had been distilled into this one, excellent second, a second that appeared to seize the very essence of hope and renewal.
And but, regardless of the fantastic thing about the scene, there was a way of fragility, a way that this second, like all moments, was fleeting and ephemeral. The flowers, so delicate and beautiful, would quickly fade, their petals dropping like confetti within the breeze. The timber, too, would quickly be clothed in leaves, their branches hidden from view. However for now, on this excellent second, all was proper with the world, and the fantastic thing about the crabapple flowers, suspended in time like a murals, was a present to behold.
