When the street is in flower season

And thunder, then sudden rain poured down on the no longer young trees... The Central Highlands is entering the rainy season.

But, in that lingering moment, the earth and sky still linger, not wanting to part with the sweet, rich echoes of spring. The young buds have given way to the bright green leaves, the summer flower buds are plump but painful, waiting for the first raindrops of the season to awaken the dance of flower life. When the vitality of nature is full, leaves sway, flowers bloom, then swarms of butterflies and bees flutter everywhere.

I suddenly understood why the flowers and butterflies on the colorful roads faintly sow in people's hearts an indescribable feeling. Not happy, not sad, just silently suppressing love. Perhaps because the sky is dark with clouds and wind, the rain is pouring down, tightly binding the flower garlands, in the midst of the turmoil of heaven and earth, the heart will suddenly stop...

My street, before the rain came and lingered, not wanting to leave, had already whispered hello to summer with fresh, colorful brushstrokes, like a carnival season parading through each street. The heart-wrenching purple of the Lagerstroemia flowers was as fresh as the purple ink of schoolchildren, then gradually faded away, exuding the purple smoke of sunset.

Walking on the road filled with flowers, I suddenly burst into the poem by Doan Phu Tu: "The color of time is not green/The color of time is purple/The scent of time is not strong/The scent of time is light" and I wondered if there was any place more poetic than the purple color of the mountain town in the season of Lagerstroemia?

When turning into another street, this season, we can see the full transformation of the street “carnival”. Suddenly sad, then bustling with joy, from purple to bright yellow of the cassia and butterfly flowers, then the nostalgic and passionate red of the royal poinciana…

I don't know if the nature here is so loving and kind that it brings to the students' eyes the vast colors of summer memories, of excitement and separation, of pure white but wistful waves, with red phoenix flowers, yellow butterfly flowers, and purple lagerstroemia flowers?

Flowers fall in the season of flowers, leaves change color. The trees of the street, using the fleeting life of flowers and leaves to light up the everlasting green color. The life of the trees has never faded, still selflessly and persistently dedicating themselves so that one day people will suddenly be startled and feel their hearts soften before the beauty of the streets with rows of trees embracing the sunlight, with thousands of petals falling off their calyxes on a rainy day.

No wonder in the past, the poet Du Fu was a bit arrogant when he complained about the wind: "Peach and plum trees planted by themselves are ownerless/The low walls and thatched roofs still have the same style of house/Why is the spring wind so insolent/Last night it secretly broke off a few flower branches".

From the sky, thousands of petals fall in one color, covering a space. The wind rustles, the petals fold, the flower carpet appears, the flower street spreads its path. A romantic picture placed next to real life, on the bustling streets, suddenly makes people walk slower, their eyes seem to search…

The roads along the park are vaguely visible, the roads are winding, undulating, turning, the carpet of flowers is brilliant as if changing, as if stopping, as if continuing. That is the moment when the petals quietly shine in their final, final beauty. Then in the morning, is there a broom sound hesitant in the sweep of a janitor? Is there a carpet of flowers that has just been woven purple, woven yellow at the end of the day, but has turned fragile?

I still remember the row of ancient bird-eye rosewood trees in the city center. The trees were rough and sturdy, the flowers were tiny and small, covering the road in layers like millet seeds, not the sweet yellow color but the pale color of young silt. The petals lightly fell on the ground, nestling together in the wind. The life of the flowers had ended but their scent still lingered somewhere, lingering in the space like a promise for the next season...

When the first rain of the season has just fallen, the streets are covered with dew, so the streets are also filled with fragrance. The faint scent of longan lingers in the cool morning breeze, the scent of sandalwood drifts far and near in the afternoon breeze. I find myself cherishing the gentle fragrance of the rows of trees along the road, present in the space of the streets as a reminder that we are enjoying the privilege of the fresh, cool air of the peaceful mountains and hills.

Sometimes, walking in the middle of the flower season, I still vaguely remember an old, dark tone of time. It cannot be defined but it is clearly a “vintage” tone - the color of the classic season, yellowish and hazy with white and black.

In that space, the old street is not a street of brilliant flowers, but quietly imprinted with the rustic beauty of ancient banyan trees, rows of mahogany, and solemn camphor trees. Where motorbike taxis and cyclos went back and forth decades ago, the affectionate call “take me back to street 14/19 with the “dong” root” still echoes. “Banyan root road” has now been replaced by rows of horse-footed banyan trees, with leaves that shine red in two seasons, forming a green wall, giving the street both a solemn and hopeful look.

People rush forward following the urge of the flow of time and then look back with nostalgia when they are stuck with memories. The street will change color in the flower season, sadness and joy follow people's lives, going back and forth with the ups and downs of life. Only the nostalgia and love for the street remains intact with the colors of flowers and leaves. And the heart asks itself: "Tomorrow, when the street is far away, will the heartbeat be absent?"

Source: https://baogialai.com.vn/khi-pho-mua-hoa-post325351.html