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Rotted
She sits beneath the oak tree, staring into its jaded leaves. Her gaze remains unsettling, unwavering, relentless. The tree gradually sways in the wind as the shadows of the branches drift over her face like ocean waves. She rests the back of her satin head on the rough bark as if finding comfort in the small action. Her brilliant blues peer up at the darkened sheath protecting the living sap of the oak.
He had told her that he seen a tree, just like this one, grow from just a small sapling only to watch how had been dying… just like this one. Slowly, but surely, the roots turn black, and the tree succumbs to disease.
It does not escape her sharp eyes, however, that—growing just beside the oak roots—sways a small violet flower, waving like tomorrow was guaranteed.