They were waiting. Their shapes were wilting; the fine edges becoming dim and unfocused, like aged eyes. Their chlorophyll was running thin through a green cartography that was drying into faded rivers. The palm print of Summer pressed with an alchemist's anticipation – but the leaves, the waiting leaves, fought the heated transformation.
The triumph of Spring was over. Their birth had finished, when they had emerged in verdant curls from stems thick with the muscular promise of a growing season. Their green scent had been dainty and cool; Persephone's fragrance heralding her return from black obscurity.
But now the sun had run rampant across the sky; his heat turning the blue eternity into a blank wilderness. The leaves curdled during the fierce day; their fatigue betraying their internal botany.
So they were waiting.
They were waiting for the season of harvests; for the smell of horses waiting in the yellow fields, shivering under a rising equinox: they were waiting for the sunsets to burst in their veins, so they could fall once more into the darkness.