This magic glade, hiding such an exquisite, enigmatic flower. How could she resist a cutting? Another like it: pride of her, no any garden.
Trembling, she took a stem to grow her own. Time and nature’s miracle.
Studying, it rested heavily in her hand.
Behind, a bold mirthless laugh. “Hoom. Trath leaf.”
Confused, she turned, grunting; the tree spoke deeply, gravely. “Heavy, the heart that bears trath leaf.”
“Only sorrow blooms a trath. Take only what you can bear.”
What could she bear? For pride, for life? Sorrow?
Every step homeward: burdensome, yet growing profoundly mournful nevertheless onward she went.