The newest leaves of the holly tree come with full blush at the tips, yet to take on the strong green of their more mature peers.
The holly tree grew slow and steady, branching out as the seasons came. Strong under the light of day and a willing perch for each passing robin.
Before the berry that nourishes the birdsong, comes the bloom to nourish the eye. Upon that holly were the flowers, the start of that sweet cycle of nature.
The holly tree had matured to a grand old lady, gracing the garden for over a hundred years already.
And in that garden was a holly tree, young yet doubtless with strong roots that held the soil. What took my eyes though were not the leaves, as deeply green as they were, but the blossoms so intricate and pure. In all my days I never saw those flowers before, only thinking of the red berries that grace so much of the artwork in our time.
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