The hawthorn tree blooms twice a year, once in spring and once in winter. In the autumn, the haws, large as her eye and speckled, weigh heavy on the branches of the tree. In the spring, the berries are sharp, a bit tangy, still haven't reached the peak of ripeness and the sour taste lingers in her mouth for days after. In the winter, when the first snows come, the white snow lays heavy on the tree so that the berries are covered with snow, they are sweet. Sour at first, but mellow out to sweet and musk. In the dead of winter, when nothing else lives, it blooms. There are no berries in the winter, just sweet flowers white as snow.
Year after year, it blooms on, surviving. One day, she will curl up under the branches of the tree and drift to sleep, returning to the earth. Such is the way of life, things are born and they must die. But even after a hundred years, she is sure that this weathered hawthorn tree will still stand, blooming.