It is a complete chrysalis that produces wings but all for a time, a time. One braves a tree that allowed a flowering unlike a rock stoic and unwavering.
One flowers the other doesn't, The tree converts the dust to weal utilizing it for itself, covers the dead, seep them into it's stems and turning them into leaves. The dead brave a cold, and bare their skeletons on its slab in that rocks have no leaves, it has no leanings, all is within and within is still an echo stalagmite hard, accumulates the dust and stymie in it.
All of nature meet the rock stuck it never grows, never moves, a malformed stump, it's is a size stunted, the tree go a length, bend sideways, dances and brave branches, pliable but firm, it's flowers would bud into fruits, it's growth that feeds and leaves behind, the rock accumulate for itself believing in it's corpse, it's rigid hold, is a gravestone. A toil of a length in ascent and decline, it is numb to the wind and hail alike, leaves it's dust behind, it dies as it lived a lump of soil.
The flowering is the difficult and vulnerable part, it is the furling, revealing all that have been consumed, it is a slow, requires patience, and bear the Unknown, inexplicable, some would calcify the bud into a rock and make of it a form for primacy, base knowing, than opening to the pregnancy of a new.
Rocks are thrown, flowers are shown, rocks kill a deer at most, a flower inhibits a mind like a rifle. It is madness to wait for a naked, to see such vulnerable, but it's fecundity produce the fruit, the offspring, continuity, progress. Retaining the tree's love when it's long gone, feeding anew, Reincarnating. Unlike the rocks with stones for shoals, whose existence peaks a thud and weathering.
The flowering is the difference between the adult crossing philosophy in Africa, It's an eventualism that sees the flowering as tough rotting the fruit from it's outset, making soil of what is truly is ephemeral, but with the wont to be soil at its own pace, design eventually.
Others would not have it, speed them up to rocks, soil is the end of all things, sodomize their kids to give them an edge and age them before their time. Denying them a flowering.
Time was really supposed to tease a blossom, but rocks mope a solid, reflect a retarded stagnation. The tree is the allowing the kid grow into a growth of discover, pellucid, unique beyond the sheer alimentary, and leave fruits behind. The rock couldn't sustain from out, From the rock up would sprout a tree, that weathers it unto dust inevitably making way for the germane, sustainable. Flower him.
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