The Fruitful

1.
She stood there, her branches spread wide, green as an emerald yet with vivid grassy yellowish hint. She was young.

The blood of earth flowed through her veins, under her skin, among the rough threads of her body. She drank willingly and she drank reluctantly, and waters transformed in juices, and juices into fibers as she grew and grew, knowing no other fling in her days, which passed swiftly as little birds by her side. And the delight it was, boiled and brewed by sun, her ultimate, only and sole delight.

Her branches she spread forward, her leaves she densified and thickened, as force and hot sweetness were overfilling her body, and she needed to make this body greater, to fill it even more.

Yet one day she discovered it wasn’t enough. The delight of having sunshine and waters inside brewed into happiness. And her body couldn’t contain this new feeling without changing into something new.

Buds of something else than the leaves. The flowers. She popped them almost unknowingly, almost against her will.

She stood there, blooming, her branches enriched and bedecked. She was beautiful. She felt beautiful.
The earth was giving to her, as always. The juices were overfilling her, and thick nectar was almost dripping as she was so wet and full of life inside. Of life and expectation. The plentifulness promised yet another change: because life endures no stagnations.

Yet no change came. The flowers weren’t changing into anything.

Then, one day, she found a few of her petals lost. Some of those left were flabby, though not faded yet. As if the overabundance of energy didn’t bring flourishing but decay.

She now knew what decay was, and that troubled her. The first trouble, ever. That was a sign that her own life would not last for eternal days. She consumed, and she enjoyed,and availed herself of everything that earth and sun had, giving nothing. It now was time to produce something on her own - or all that happiness, and sweetness, and force would go wasted quickly. And then, she herself might be in vain. That would be such a shameful end to her existence, after taking so much resource into her. So shameful she was ready to weep.

At the chill of night, as the sun slept and the earth was calm, it came to her.

She had to bear a fruit.

As that instinctive intention went through her fibers, she sensed a new eagerness in her. Enthusiasm to create. It lasted for just a moment, bringing a feeling of righteousness, interrupted by a new worry: she did not know what’s a proper form to make and action to take to fulfill this doubtlessly right instinct?

The earth was silent. The sun was not here.

Before, she consumed what she was offered, and she was content with this. Now she had to decide for herself, taking a step forward, and she believed it wasn’t in her nature to take any steps, since she was not an animal or a human. But why would something not from her nature feel so right, even though so disturbing? Therefore, it really is somewhere in her.

She brought her waters, flowing in profusion in her tissues, up to one of the most beautiful flowers. The nectar and the pollen mixed together in a perfect match. Days and days, they were as swift as ever. Her first fruit ever ripened on the branch, the proud round thing of perfect light green colour. She nourished it daily, admired it every minute. Every second she strained herself to bring another liquid drop up to the branch. As time went, the green changed to warm deep yellow, just to fit the sunshine which warmed her for so long.

And one day…behold!

A person passed.

She held her breath as the hand touched her branch, bowing it down. What a honour to her first fruit! Truly her work had not been wasted!

A bite. Juice spurts out, with all the vividness she brought into it by her unceasing labour.

But what’s that? After just a mere tasting, her precious fruit is thrown away!

As the person went away, wiping the lips, she just stood there in despair. For a brief moment, the flow in her almost stopped. What did she do wrong? This was definitely nothing else than a fruit, and to her liking it was definitely a very good one. Not that she had something to compare with. But since she gave it her all, how could it be different?

Rustle, rustle – she noticed suddenly. A quick fluffy animal jumped out of the grass. It sniffed the leftovers of the fruit…thoroughly. Then it grabbed it and disappeared with just one hasty skip.

Not a human but an animal has put her fruit in good use. In the end, she has made a good thing, not a shallow one.

Yet, to render her thanks to the world which had filled her to the point of exuberance and brought her up, and to amend her overflowing young pleasure, one fruit just wasn’t enough. She still had plenty of vital liquids in her, and sugars, and oils. And that meant, she had plenty of work to do, and still an eager intention to make it.



2.
The bitter taste of her first failure almost ceased. She didn’t want it to affect her next one, so she tried to feel a thrill of joy while she was pumping the liquids over her other branch, into the hard pulp, making it properly soft, developed and as ripe as it could be. While developing a fruit, she, as well, developed right feelings.

So, one day… Plop!

She almost sparkled with joy. Her fruit went into the world, because its time came. Someone will definitely come for this delicious treat. She didn’t await much anymore: another animal would be fine.

But then, oh no! she realized that it fell right into the thick bush, where no beast and no rodent would make their way. Is it an utmost failure for this creation of her?!

It was almost devastating. She just stood for a while, and her “a while” was days and days. Her petals were not resilient anymore, and not much of them were left, leaving the beds of her possible future fruits naked and uninviting.

Finally, she restored her vivacity, even though her fiber was now thick and harsh in her. With that, she noticed a tickle. And another tickle. And another one. These were the smallest legs and feelers: the ants came.

That was so satisfying. Why didn’t she realize it before? Ants, though small, inhabit the underground in great number. Surely they might not be seen by most, but still they’re little living things, working in their pace – fast to an amount she could not gasp nor understand. The little labourers will help themselves on her fruit, and – who knows? – it might even aid them in surviving in the foodless age of… Of winter…

Little she knew that the smell of her fruit had brought ants to make a new home, a child anthill at her roots, helping the tiny nation in its spreading.

     
But winter! This has never hit her before. Yet her body had hold the knowledge hidden all along. It came from earth: the memory of frozen soil and everything sleepy deep down transferred into her with its minerals. The era which keeps all the motions ceased. This felt dreadful for a brief moment.

The dread had set her on a rush. It didn’t feel quite right; but this time she didn’t think of rightness. She had to put into a good use whatever she has got left. It wasn’t a zeal anymore, rather the diligence. She lost quite a number of her precious flowers in her grief, yet many were still there. Her veins became sturdy, making it harder for the waters to flow, and the sweetness she held from her youth was oh so much decreased. But the movements inside were well-known and comprehensible now. It would be called a rhythm – if it wouldn’t be so uninterrupted. A persistence. With persistence, she pushed and pushed her juices forward, to all the branches, to all the flowers, a whole bunch of fruit in making, to be in time before it all ends.



3.
The winds came. With them, came the thunderstorm.

Little, so little she knew of what awaits her. Little, so little she was prepared. And oh so little still were her fruits, a whole bunch, ripped off her bent branches. Scattered, they were laying at the wet grass – so unripe that no animal, or bird, or insect would come for them. Scattered, were laying the last flowers, with none left.

That was a disaster. She rushed, and that’s exactly why she did not make it in time. Trying to make everything at once, she could not properly nourish any. Her grief increased as she discovered that these were her last resorts of bearing. Nothing left. And nothing to lose.

With grief, she brought forward her strongest branch: up, to the suddenly unclear skies, at where the precious gold warmness dwells. With grief, her tears rushed at there. She did not care about bitterness anymore, as it was the last plentiful resource of her. With a thick flow, crystallised honey of her sugars stored deep inside the heartwood pulp was brought to the branch. It was her memory of her young burst which gave her the delightful life and might. A sweet, sweet memory went to where she, with all her will, bloomed with a single flower - to leave her forever. She tried to be fruitful in many ways, sometimes successful but mostly not. This one she will bear out for her own self, as she knows it, yet for everything alive too, as always. With bitterness and sugarness, and thick late warmness, and memories of soil and sun and winds, the fruit grew, swelling with scarlet. And, as the time came, it just fell away, not near, not far - just the right way into the slightly faded grasses. And it was only then when she realised what was that fruit.
The most useless, the most great of all her fruits, an offspring.

After winter ends, after sun warms the earth, and earth will run its blood again, its nutrifying softness will hug and wake the mysterious seed of life from the sturdy pit. The seed which holds everything she had deep down at her, and more. More young, more wise, more proper. An offspring.

She can only wait now.
Wait...
Everything became so slow.

It's cold.

It's warm.

And it's warm again.