My roots more closely resemble those of a honeysuckle vine rather than an oak tree. Like the vines, I've stretched so far from my roots that we hardly bear any relationship to one another. Like the roots, my spirit is always alive, but hidden by dirt and no one knows for sure if I will reappear. My branches look like dead sticks most of the year, tough brown extenders woven into chain link fences, creeping along the ground and around trees. Then spring comes and the woody stems show tiny buds of green. Soon the green vines are growing madly, sprouting leaves and clinging to everything in their path. Finally flowers of purest white burst forth, dispensing their clean sweet scent throughout the neighborhood.
That's me and my creativity. It may only be noticeable a few times a year, but when it blooms, it's sweet.