A Fluttering Documentary

The kobushi magnolia planted as a street tree is blooming with a powerful bearing.

Its expression is just like a fist thrust up toward the heavens—which is surely why our forebears named it “kobushi” (fist).

A few weeks later, turning my eyes to the same kobushi flowers along that road, they looked like countless slovenly white socks caught on withered branches and drooping down—which was funny.

Far removed from the strength I’d seen that time, their utterly worn-out figure appeared like the limpness that comes after finishing a contest, after the sense of accomplishment of having given it your all.

But observing closely, weren’t young leaves quietly taking root in the shadow of those tired white socks? That sight is truly beautiful—the inheritance of life.

For me, this “tale of the kobushi” made me feel a great deal and became a fine place of learning—a happy two weeks.