In a meadow high upon a hill, a thousand flowers bloomed. They had one summer, and each burst forth with all its little might, as colourful as it could. The yellow ones came first, and amidst the tall green grass, they glowed like little lights. The white ones were a bit shorter, often hidden in the tall grass. But when the wind blew, they sparkled, like little stars. Blue and pink ones came next, some violet and purple. Red poppies had fields of their own, but a few rebels had joined the riot of colours. Together, they were magical.
You could not see them from too far, they looked like any other meadow. Too near was no good either, for they gave each other enough space. Stand next to them, and they would wave gently to you. Do you have a story, you’d ask. Nay, they’d sway. We have no story, we just are. Will you be here tomorrow, you’d wonder. They would smile gently, in time to the music of the land, and the breeze, neither knowing, nor caring for the morrow. The moment, it was theirs. They were there for you now, and if only you knew it, in that moment you belonged to them and no other. Not even to yourself.
The summer flowers did not come to stay, but they came each summer. Filling the valley with their glorious colours. Neither vain, nor self conscious, the flowers of the meadow filled the heart so gently, that you barely knew they were there. Not for them the brazen glory of the red rose, that etched itself upon your soul, leaving it empty when it was no more. Not for them the fragrance of the Lily that grew richer till you could stand it no more, and had to part.
The flowers of the summer meadow must have faded, or would you not have remembered them in the dark of winter nights? They came with no memories, other than the ones forgotten, like a wisp upon the wind, gone, just as you spotted it. But now, just as you stood amidst them, they were yours, and you, theirs. For this one moment, you were all their colours. And the sun shone on your face.