Eastern Old Friends

An early-bloomed apricot took the heralding spring breezes for the whole flowering season. Its premature colour is like a joyful laughter in the mist of the luxurious yet monochrome green.
However, its glory will be swift and its death will come even before its honeydew taste forms.
Younger people laugh at the permanent snow that rests in my hair but I still worry at their dismissal, my warnings for naught. How many more early-fallen apricots must we see in this eternal-seasoned garden?