Just a Change of Seasons

In a clearing, there's a Jacaranda tree standing alone.

The foundations for a house are being laid around it now. A well is being dug in what will be a lawn in the years to come. Red bricks are lying neatly in stacks.
People are going here and there.
The Jacaranda tree is standing silently: watching. It is mesmerized.
That was Winter.
Now it is spring. Purple flowers carpet what will be a driveway a year from now. A truck unloads sacks of cement.
The flowers are running here and there in the silent breeze. As evening approaches, the men leave and a lone light goes on.
Carcasses of Jacaranda flowers are floating in the well.
Many years have passed. The driveway is red tiles that look nice in the sun.
The well is gone. There is a fountain in the corner, where there is a miniature bridge surrounded by cacti. Empty deck chairs are casting silhouettes in the moonlight.
Leaves and dead bougainvillaea bracts are littering the slightly golden lawn. Soft, white mattresses are being trundled out of the house. The sweeper is trying to sweep all that he can but autumn won't let the lawn clean.
Women are left standing in the lobby. The men are moving out of the gate, past the soft, white mattresses, past the Jacaranda tree.

Only the Jacaranda tree knows that it is just a change of seasons.