Pointillistic

The rain left us a dozen shades of green and a thousand spent petals. They fell from the dogwood and the cherry and the forget-me-not. They mingled with the new grass.

Here they are, the raw material of spring, cast aside now that that they've done their job. The essence of the season, its molecular structure. Or, to be painterly, is dabs of color, its brush strokes.

Looking at them now I see their glory and their transience. It is the oldest story of all, but one we never stop telling. Beauty is born, beauty reigns, beauty dies.