The 10 Best Short Essays on the Beauty of the Xoan Flower

Many are familiar with the famous lines by Nguyễn Bính: “On that spring day, the rain gently fell, and the Xoan flowers, in layers, dropped to the ground...” Some flowers can’t be brought into a vase. The beauty of nature’s flowers lies in their free, unconfined existence. Every late spring, the Xoan flowers bloom in shades of purple along the roadsides, evoking a flood of memories.

The northern Vietnamese countryside is rich with trees, and after bamboo, Xoan is the most common. The Xoan tree is easy to plant and thrives almost anywhere—along roadsides, by fences, or even in barren land. Its straight trunk grows quickly, and within a decade, it can produce wood suitable for building houses. The roots of fallen Xoan trees sprout new shoots that quickly grow into full trees, though these younger trees produce a softer wood. Even today, a traditional three-room house built from Xoan wood is a source of great pride. Xoan wood, once submerged in pond water for years, is resistant to termites, and carpenters skillfully select the right pieces to carve intricate patterns without the need for nails.

After the cold of late winter, the weather warms up. Birds sing merrily, calling to their mates. Along country roads, the pale purple blossoms of Xoan trees look like small clouds on the branches. The flowers grow in large clusters, swaying gently in the spring breeze. Occasionally, tiny petals drift through the air. The scent of the Xoan flowers lingers, soft and delicate. Fortunately, the spring breeze is light, so the fragrance isn’t overpowered. Walking beneath these purple blossoms feels like merging with nature itself, as if one could inhale the fragrance of the wind. For those returning home after a long absence, the sight of Xoan flowers evokes deep nostalgia and longing.

Interestingly, pests seem to avoid the Xoan tree. Its leaves, with their somewhat pungent odor, have historically been used as green manure. Apart from enriching the soil for rice crops, they also serve as a natural pesticide. The fruit of the Xoan tree is equally intriguing. In folklore, the back of the Xoan fruit (not its front) is often compared to a small toy. Children would play with these fruits, either throwing them or using them as ammunition for homemade toy guns. When the Xoan fruit ripens, it attracts various birds, especially the common tailorbird. They carry the fruit away, peck at the seeds, and drop them at the base of the tree, where they eventually sprout into new Xoan trees. Who knows, perhaps in those tiny shoots, there will emerge another generation of Xoan trees that will grace the skies with their purple blooms in years to come...

Nguyễn Xuân Hòa

"The scent of home" – the fragrance of days gone by… It could be the smell of flowers that grow in rural villages, or the distinct tastes and aromas that define the essence of rural life. It’s the fragrance of ripe rice fields wafting in the breeze, the fresh scent of wild grass mingling with the wind from the fields, the musty odor of old thatched roofs, the earthy scent of barren soil, the pungent smell of mud, decaying leaves, and the dampness of endless rainy days...

In the northern Vietnamese countryside during the 1960s, nature thrived. In my village back then, houses were sparse, and the gardens were vast. Beyond the alley, the trees grew thick, with hedgerows made from oleander and jujube trees creating a rich green barrier. Xoan trees were planted everywhere—in garden corners, by ponds, wherever there was space. The wood from these trees was vital for building houses. Xoan wood, known for its resilience against termites, was highly valued by the locals. The leaves of the Xoan tree were also used as natural fertilizer, enriching the soil.

After the Lunar New Year, the weather turned cool and damp. The once bare Xoan trees began sprouting leaves, and from between them, tiny purple buds slowly bloomed. Soon, clusters of flowers blossomed, floating like clouds in the wind. The village was filled with the scent of Xoan flowers—sometimes overwhelming, sometimes faint, sweet one moment and tangy the next. The flowers blended with the fragrance of grapefruit blossoms, betel flowers, and many others that bloomed at the same time, creating an intoxicating aroma. The fresh scent of young leaves sprouting from the trees further added to the symphony of spring’s fragrances—light, gentle, and invigorating. The fragrance of spring, the scent of home... pure and simple, like the rural villages themselves.

In my childhood village, there was a tree commonly used for fences that has now almost vanished: the oleander. Its serrated leaves, with sharp thorns, were thick and leathery, maintaining their deep green color year-round. Few people noticed that this fence plant also bore beautiful flowers. Oleander blossoms grew at the tips of the branches, pure white and delicate, resembling tiny button flowers. They were so small that you had to take a close look to appreciate their natural beauty. I remember, as a child, bending down to smell the soft scent of these wild flowers by the fence. The fragrance, though subtle, was surprisingly pleasant. Oleander flowers bloomed all year, adding a humble, natural beauty to the fences around homes.

Another strong, enduring fence plant in those days was the jujube tree. Its twisted branches formed strange, unique shapes. The leaves were tough and rugged, staying lush and green year-round. As late spring gave way to early summer, tiny off-white jujube flowers began to appear among the dense green leaves. After a few days, these tiny flowers gradually expanded into full blooms. The petals spread outwards in a simple yet pure beauty. Though the flowers were unscented, they carried a subtle wild fragrance, a scent of nature that lingered in the air, reminiscent of the humble rural life that had existed for generations.

In the summer, ripe jujube fruits would turn golden against the backdrop of green leaves. These small fruits, about the size of corn kernels, were sweet and fragrant, attracting the curious, lively children during their summer break. The soft, sweet aroma of the ripe fruits would gently fill the air as you walked past the trees.

When speaking of the scent of home, one cannot forget the warm, earthy fragrance of the thiên lí flower. In the past, even though we didn’t have a large garden, my mother still made space for two trellises. One was for gourds and cucumbers, while the other was dedicated to the thiên lí plant. This climbing plant, with heart-shaped leaves and yellowish-green flowers, was grown primarily for its fragrance and to provide shade. Only later did we realize that its tender leaves and flowers could be used in cooking, adding a mild sweetness and lightness to dishes.

On warm summer nights, the scent of thiên lí flowers, under the moonlight, was intoxicating. The fragrance filled the air, wrapping around you like a soft embrace. The flowers were often called “night jasmine” because their fragrance intensified as night fell. The word "thiên" in its name evokes the feeling that the scent of these flowers was as pure and delicate as heaven itself.

The scent of home… with its myriad shades and tones, is hard to fully capture. It could also be the sweet, smoky aroma of roasted soapberries carried on the breeze, or the soft fragrance of freshly washed hair—of mothers and sisters—just out of the shower.

It’s also the fresh scent of newly harvested hay filling the alleyways, or the pungent aroma of haystack bedding, rich with the smell of rice. As the Lunar New Year approached, homes were alive with activity as families prepared for the traditional Tết festival. The smell of dried grapefruit peels, castor seeds, Xoan fruits, mistletoe, and other herbs, burned on small fires during the winter evenings to make ash for soaking glutinous rice, filled the air. Alongside the scents of steamed rice cakes, sticky rice desserts, and a host of traditional sweets and snacks, the air was alive with the vibrant energy of a village preparing for Tết.

The scent of home… from days gone by. Some of these fragrances have been preserved, while many others now exist only in the distant memories of those who lived through them...

Lê Hữu Tỉnh

In March, when spring is in full bloom... one day, you may find yourself caught under the magical sight of soft purple Xoan flowers floating delicately in a spring rain. The violet color of these flowers evokes an indescribable sense of nostalgia...

The Xoan tree, beloved by all, is admired for its resilience and vitality. Surviving the harsh winter with its bare branches reaching toward the cold sky, it’s also known as “the winter sorrow.” Yet, come spring, the tree bursts forth in fresh green leaves, as though rejuvenated. On a spring morning, the sight of the Xoan flowers blooming in vibrant purple fills the sky, a sight to behold.

The petals of the Xoan flowers are delicate and gracefully clustered together. When the wind blows, you’re gently showered by the soft rain of petals drifting like a “purple dream.” This sight stirs memories, as you recall the famous verses of poet Nguyễn Bính: “That day the spring rain danced in the air, / Xoan flowers, layer by layer, fell in full bloom…” Could it be that the “layers” of Xoan petals symbolize the deep feelings and bonds shared between old friends over time?

The fragrance of the Xoan flower is not overpowering like other blooms, but rather light, gentle, and subtly lingering. If you ever find yourself strolling through the outskirts of Hanoi in the spring, surrounded by these “clouds” of purple flowers, interwoven with young green leaves, and slowly inhaling their delicate fragrance, your heart will feel lighter, at peace.

I remember my school days when my friends and I would leisurely cycle down Bưởi Street, Hoàng Hoa Thám Road, or around Tây Hồ, where Xoan trees grew amidst other plants. We would stop to breathe in the ethereal fragrance of Xoan flowers carried on the spring breeze. In the outskirts of Hanoi, there are also many Xoan trees in bloom when spring arrives. Some of us were even tasked by our mothers to gather Xoan leaves to “ferment” eggs. When wrapped in Xoan leaves, the eggs would ripen evenly, turning golden and sweet, with a creamy flavor. And as we picked the leaves, the boys would always gather some purple Xoan flowers to give to the girls. Even as time passes and we are gifted with many different flowers, I believe the purple Xoan flowers from a friend will forever remain etched in someone’s memory.

The Xoan flowers, though timely in their arrival, bloom quickly and fade just as fast, leaving behind a bittersweet feeling of longing and regret for flower lovers… Life is not always filled with lasting bonds, and sometimes, what once felt warm and full of promise fades in an instant due to trivial reasons. Yet… deep within the heart of every person, there remains a shadow of someone who once passed through their life. The poignant poetry of poet Khải Nguyên also reflects this feeling, as they recall someone from the past: “March is here, do you still remember me? / The Xoan flowers have turned the sky purple…” This question lingers in the air each season when the Xoan flowers bloom, even though the person from the past is long gone...

We know that connections come and go as part of the natural flow of life, but sometimes, the gentle purple hue of Xoan flowers stirs deep memories of a distant time...

By Vy Anh

The Xoan tree is tall and sturdy, only blooming when it has reached a certain age. Unlike many other flowers, it is not delicate but strong. In February, it begins to produce clusters of small, purple flowers. These blooms are not flashy or extravagant, nor do they attract the attention of bees and butterflies, but they leave a lasting impression on those who see them.

The Xoan flower is not the type to be placed in a vase, nor is it the kind people typically admire or give as gifts. Its fragrance is subtle, almost unnoticeable, and no one takes time to stop and inhale its delicate scent. The Xoan flower quietly lives its life, from its birth to the moment it falls from the branch. It blends silently into the spring drizzle, showering the ground, the rooftops, and by the morning light, it astonishes all with its understated beauty.

In mid-March, the air turns chilly like the last days of winter. Yet, the fine mist of rain drifting through the sky tells us that winter has passed, and we are now at the tail end of spring. The Xoan flowers, small and purple, fall silently, calmly. They don’t belong to winter, yet they haven’t quite been claimed as spring or summer flowers either. My grandfather used to say: "The Xoan flower is rustic, yet it seems to embody the essence of all three seasons of the year." If you watch the Xoan petals fall, you’ll see how they resemble the "spring rain dancing through the sky," and hear the distant call of summer, even in the cool air of late winter. Perhaps that’s why the Xoan tree is also known as "the sorrow of winter."

For me, the Xoan flower is tied to a memory in purple. A soft, yearning memory of a carefree childhood.

It’s been years since I left home for school. In the city, they don’t grow Xoan flowers. Every summer when I return home, the Xoan trees have already begun to bear fruit. The red of the flamboyant trees brightens the village streets, and occasionally, I catch glimpses of beautiful, elegant roses, lilies, and chrysanthemums in the flower shops, trying to find a touch of familiar color. But it’s impossible to find a simple Xoan flower amidst the bustle of the city.

The Xoan flower’s tiny, delicate purple petals are neither deep nor faint in color, but they carry an overwhelming sense of longing, of love. Only the Xoan flower holds this gentle purple hue. The sparse leaves of the tree bear clusters of these small, purple flowers, creating a dreamy effect, like soft clouds floating in the sky.

Every March, the Xoan flowers fill the small village roads, carpeting the ground in purple, drifting gently on the still surface of the pond, as if playing a game of boat racing. The pond, clear like a large mirror, reflects the Xoan tree, its branches gracefully bowing to admire themselves as the gentle spring breeze sweeps through.

The purple of the Xoan flowers has followed me throughout my life. It walked with me to school every morning, and every night, it would appear in my dreams—purple, like the dresses worn by the young village girls.

In the city at night, the air is thick with the fragrance of milk flowers, yet there is none of the gentle, sweet scent of the Xoan flower. Each falling Xoan petal whispers softly in my heart: "March..."

By Lê Văn Huân

Purple is a symbol of unwavering love and devotion. It also represents the gentle beauty of the girls from Hue. For me, purple reminds me of a tree that blooms with lovely purple flowers, found all over Vietnam. There is a simple, humble flower that has been intertwined with the childhood memories of many rural children like me. This flower is called the Xoan flower. Every year, in early March, the roads and alleys of my village are filled with blooming Xoan flowers. The beauty of the Xoan flower is humble and modest, easily overlooked from a distance because of its small size and its location high up on the tree branches. Each tiny Xoan flower, delicate and charming, has four or five pure white petals with a dark purple stamen in the center. When the Xoan flowers bloom, they release a sweet fragrance with a slightly bitter undertone.

In my old 3rd grade reading book, there was a poem called 'Xoan Flower'—the author was unknown, but I still remember it to this day. There were lines I loved:

'Xoan flowers bloom with sweet purple hue
Wind blows petals into my book.'

The Xoan flower has always been a part of my childhood. Every spring, when the Xoan flowers bloomed, the village would be bathed in their presence. The small, purple clusters of Xoan flowers swayed gently in the spring breeze. The light drizzle of rain in the spring would shake and stir the delicate petals, with their understated beauty, creating an ethereal atmosphere over the village.

In the poetry of late poet Nguyễn Bính, the Xoan flower is associated with village festivals and young love. It is heart-wrenching to think of the love between a girl and a boy, promised by a song 'sung at the village', that never came to be because the boy failed to meet her during the spring festival.

... In the past, every spring when the Xoan flowers bloomed, my grandmother would warn, 'When the Xoan flowers bloom, there will be lots of mosquitoes!' Spring, with its warmth, brings forth the hatching of many insects like flies and mosquitoes after the cold winter.

As per the natural cycle, when the Xoan flowers fade, the Xoan fruit begins to form. When unripe, the fruit is smooth and green, the size of a child's pinky finger. When ripe, it turns yellow and is very beautiful. The Xoan fruit from the house is bitter and toxic, not fit for consumption, but the Xoan fruit from the forest is edible and is often sold in rural markets.

The Xoan fruit also became a way to describe a woman's beautiful face in ancient times. People would say a woman with a long, oval face had a 'Xoan face'. In contrast, in Nguyễn Du's 'The Tale of Kiều', he described the ideal face as 'round and full', a different standard altogether. Still, I prefer the 'Xoan face' to the 'round and full face' described by the great poet of old.

For the boys in my village back then, the Xoan fruit was also part of their favorite childhood game—the 'phoc' gun fight using Xoan fruits. The children would cut a small bamboo tube, the length of a forearm and about the width of a finger, and remove the wooden ends. They would then steal a chopstick, attach it to one end of the bamboo tube, and place a Xoan fruit at each end. By pushing the chopstick, the Xoan fruit would be shot out with a 'pop' sound. We would run around shooting at each other, having fun without any danger, as the force of the shot was gentle. When the Xoan season ended and there were no more fruits to shoot, we would replace them with other fruits or paper balls, though the 'pop' wouldn’t sound as crisp as the Xoan fruit.

I also remember how my grandmother would pick Xoan leaves and place them on a bunch of bananas in the jar to help them ripen faster, or she would boil them with other herbs to make bathwater for my siblings and me when we had rashes or itching during the hot summer.

The bark and wood of the Xoan tree are light and porous, with a bitter taste that makes them resistant to termites. As a result, Xoan wood was often used to make household furniture such as beds and tables. In my childhood, people even used Xoan wood to build houses, as bricks, cement, and steel were not as readily available and were mostly reserved for state projects. To prepare for building a house, people would plant a Xoan garden years in advance. Once the trees were mature, they would chop them down, strip the bark, or soak the logs in the pond. The longer they soaked, the better. When it came time to build, they would dry the wood to prevent cracking.

Nowadays, it's rare to see Xoan trees lining the roads, in alleys, or in village gardens. I still love walking slowly under the Xoan trees on the village road, occasionally stopping to listen to the birds chirping in the branches. The last blooms of the Xoan flowers, swayed by the spring breeze, would fall softly to the ground, covering the paths and catching in people's hair. The spring rain still drizzled, though it was fading. The village roads lined with Xoan trees were now covered in a carpet of tiny purple flowers, like a light purple quilt. When the Xoan flowers fell from the branches to the ground, they would be trampled underfoot, and even the poet's soul would feel a pang of sadness:

'The spring rain hesitated to fall
Xoan flowers crushed beneath feet.'

Whether the poet felt sorrow for the crushed Xoan flowers or for the lost love of the village girl, it is unclear. But we know that 'spring has ended'! Will the lovers meet again next year? Spring is filled with joy, but there is still a silent sadness in the heart of the girl left behind. Spring can’t answer that...

... If we were to consider the gender of nouns as some languages like Russian and French do, the word 'Xoan' would undoubtedly be feminine, as it is commonly used for girls' names. In the countryside, girls often had simple names derived from plants like Xoan, Plum, Rose, Guava, and others, names that reflected their gentle, humble, and hardworking nature. These were the standards that rural girls were expected to live by. If a girl did not possess these qualities, her grandmother or mother would teach her to adopt them.

I once had a neighbor named Xoan, just a few houses away from mine. I admired her for being beautiful, kind, and five years younger than me. When she was younger, a family in the village had expressed interest in her, planning to marry her to their son one day. I went away to university and then worked far from home. When I came back for Tết, my mother told me that Xoan had married a man in the district and was now living happily as the owner of a successful business. She no longer had to endure the hardships of village life. My mother also mentioned that she had changed her name to Diễm Hương. I felt happy for Xoan because she was one of the lucky rural girls who found a better life. I wished her happiness. These days, it's hard to find simple names like Xoan, Plum, Rose, Guava, and others in my hometown.

My childhood in the countryside passed quietly, like 'clouds drifting to the horizon', fading further away with many unforgettable images, among which the tiny, purple, simple Xoan flowers, just like the village girls of the past, remain in my memory. Today, on my way home from work, I spotted a lone Xoan tree still blooming along the roadside. I stopped and gazed at it, and memories of my childhood flooded back. I love the Xoan flower because it represents the memories of my rural childhood.

Trần Trung

A narrow alley winds quietly, with patches of green moss crawling along the worn brick walls. I tread lightly on the path covered in fallen purple xoan flowers. Tiny clusters of delicate petals, faintly purple, scatter across the ground. A breeze blows through, and the petals flutter, creating a dreamy purple sky in the air. In that moment, my heart softens, finding peace in the simplicity of nature.

The xoan tree, also known as ‘sầu đông’ or ‘thầu đâu’ in my hometown, blooms each year just after the Lunar New Year. The sweet scent of purple flowers emerges as light rain falls, and petals drift onto the ground, creating a carpet of color. As a child, I would play with the small green xoan fruits, using them as ammunition in slingshot games, aiming at distant golden leaves or birds flying high in the sky.

Though the fruit of the xoan tree is inedible, it was a beloved plaything among the girls in our village. Sometimes, we would fashion the flowers into headbands, pretending to be brides and grooms in our playful games. The tree would gently sway in the breeze, its leaves and blossoms falling softly onto our heads and shoulders, like a tender, affectionate embrace.

The xoan flowers have five tiny petals tinged with purple, their centers filled with clusters of deep purple stamens. Their fragrance, subtle yet distinct, is a gentle, lingering sweetness. If one were to nap beneath the tree or wander through a blooming xoan grove, the unique scent would overwhelm the senses, evoking a bittersweet nostalgia, as though the flowers themselves carry the longing of a girl in love.

As a child, I would often find clusters of fallen xoan flowers scattered across the ground, forming a delicate purple carpet. I couldn’t bear to step on them, fearing my foot might crush the delicate petals. Even in the coldness of winter, the fallen flowers seemed to tell a quiet story, like the silken handkerchief of a lover who had long ago parted ways. The sound of a broom sweeping up the broken petals was a reminder of their fleeting beauty, as gentle hands gathered what remained of their once-perfect form.

It’s said that the xoan tree represents a girl waiting for her love, but he never returned. Her sorrow transformed into the bitter, inedible xoan fruit, and the flowers became a symbol of her unwavering devotion. The unfulfilled love of the girl lives on in the deep purple of the flowers, a symbol of eternal waiting. Her longing, like the flowers, slowly fades away as the seasons pass, never knowing if the man she waited for ever truly loved her.

So, with each passing year, as the winter ends and the xoan flowers begin to fall, the tree stands bare, its branches fragile against the cold, gray sky. In the chilly winds and light rains, it seems to mourn the loss of love, its flowers wilting away, and yet the hope of reunion lingers. By March, the lingering memories of longing remain in the fading purple blooms, their fragrance growing faint, and the yearning heart slowly fades into the distance, still holding onto that moment of hope.

I long to return to that spot under the xoan tree in March, to let the flowers fall softly on my shoulders and hair, to feel the last winds of spring and the beginning of summer. In that moment, life still seems full of beauty, and I can remember the small joys of childhood, gathering xoan flowers for pretend play. Those pure, magical moments are hard to find in the years that follow, as life moves on and forces us to grow up.

I wish I could return to that place under the xoan tree in March, to make a bouquet of sweet purple xoan flowers, breathe in their fragrance, and hold onto that fleeting moment of youth. To go back to the age of seventeen, to face the one I love without fear, without lies, without looking away, knowing that someone behind me is watching with a deep gaze. Will the xoan flowers fall again? Will I return to find the soft xoan bouquet, left by the old brick path with ferns and moss growing alongside it?

My heart will always belong to the season when xoan flowers bloom. Their delicate purple hue fills the air, staining the sky with shades of longing, and embedding in my heart the memories of love unfulfilled. I know that amidst the vast world, I will cherish those who cherish me, and they will bring peace into my life.

If ever you find yourself back in the old place, stand by the xoan tree. Pick up for me the wreath I once made, and love the soft xoan blossoms: purple every time January fades away!

Trần Hiền

When the rice fields are lush with growth and the young grass along the road is eager for rain, the xoan flowers bloom, releasing their fragrance into the breeze. Before long, their delicate purple petals will be swept into the poetry of Nguyễn Bính, stirring readers' hearts with his words: “That day, spring rain poured, / Xoan flowers fell in layers, scattered everywhere…”

Ah yes! To speak of spring in the northern rice fields is to evoke the misty rain, the gardens buzzing with bees and butterflies, and the swallows gracefully soaring over the narrow ditches. They seem to search for the lost footsteps of the ancient folk tale heroine, Tấm.

People have divided the year into four seasons: spring, summer, autumn, and winter, to reflect the changes in nature. But when we connect our senses with the emotions of the heart, even inanimate things seem to hold deeper meaning. As the poet Nguyễn Du once said: “No matter the scenery, it carries sorrow / For when the heart is sad, the landscape offers no joy.”

Indeed!

Last spring and this spring, two waves of the COVID-19 pandemic swept through our country. While the natural world quietly continues its cycle, it felt as though spring itself had disappeared. Even though the loudspeakers in the village occasionally played the tune: “In March, the bees go out to gather nectar / The elephants come down to the river to drink…” (West Central Highlands - TV)

It turns out... the spring of nature has always accompanied the spring of the human heart. When traditional festivals had to be halted, and distant kisses were kept at bay, the soul of the Lunar New Year seemed absent. It was a time when poets struggled to rediscover the essence of the flowers in the pages of their past lives. They attempted to recreate a spring morning, with light raindrops lingering on the lips of a young girl during a village festival. Then, not long after, a “first spring” arrived, bursting forth with tears of joy soaking the soldier’s uniform. It felt like the seed had sprouted, bringing forth new growth, inviting us to sow sweetness into the earth and the hearts of people. The melody of hope continues to echo, year after year, from rural fields to urban flower buds.

And... right at this moment, my clumsy fingers stop typing as I gently pluck a few strands of gray hair that unexpectedly fell onto my keyboard. I pause and glance out the window, across the small concrete road leading to the fields. There, under the sprawling xoan tree, a young village girl rests, her eyes fixed on the vast green rice fields stretching to the horizon. What might she be thinking? Only the xoan branches know her thoughts.

I open YouTube, selecting the music channel. A gentle female voice begins to sing: “And gently, spring returns with the swallows. / A season of joy has arrived. / The spring of dreams, has it ever returned? / With smoke rising on the river. / The rooster crows by the river. / A sunny afternoon... today... endless...”

Collected

Spring brings warm sunshine, carrying with it the fresh buds and vibrant green shoots. Across my rural hometown, the air is filled with the scent of the countryside—sweet aromas of grapefruit and lemon blossoms drifting on the breeze, spreading through every garden. When spring arrives, it’s a time of blooming peach and apricot branches, but as January turns to February, I always look forward to a special flower that has captured my heart—an unassuming and humble blossom known as the Sainfoin flower, or in our dialect, ‘Thau Dau,’ though some call it ‘Sad Winter Flower.’ I recall, as a child, how my heart fluttered with excitement every time I saw those purple clusters, stirring emotions I couldn't quite put into words.

In my hometown, Sainfoin flowers were abundant. My grandfather would often say that the tree was easy to grow and was valuable for its strong and beautiful wood, which was used to make structural beams for houses and various other items. Rows of these trees were planted beside trellises of lush water spinach, near lemon and grapefruit trees in the garden, and were often seen around the house like neat fences, standing tall as if reaching for the blue sky. During winter, these trees stood bare, their branches stark and withered, silent in the cold, as if mourning the loneliness and sorrow of the season. Perhaps that is why they are called ‘Sad Winter Trees’?

But when the warm spring sun arrives, the fresh green buds begin to emerge, sprouting along the branches in lively growth, as if the trees themselves were celebrating the return of the season. The sight of these new shoots brings an energetic vitality, much like young girls blossoming into adulthood, at the height of their beauty and vigor.

And as the spring unfolds, the trees seem to sway with the wind, their fresh green leaves adding to the tranquility of the rural landscape. Then one day, we all look up in awe and exclaim, ‘Oh, look at the beautiful Sainfoin flowers!’ These tiny, delicate blossoms, with five pale purple petals and a hint of white, bloom in clusters around the leaves. Every time I see them, I find myself mesmerized, enchanted by their soft, gentle beauty. These purple flowers, so sweet and tender, remind me of a lover’s gentle smile, evoking feelings of love, longing, and nostalgia. Their color seems to whisper a quiet, bittersweet memory, filled with both the sweetness of love and the sadness of waiting. The flowers dance in the breeze, their petals falling onto shoulders and into the hair of passersby, leaving behind traces of love and remembrance.

But Sainfoin flowers bloom quickly, and their petals fall just as fast. After a single night, the flowers have already scattered across the yard, floating away on the wind, creating a soft purple carpet along the pathways, waiting for someone to walk over them. These fallen flowers bring a sense of melancholy, reminding me of the fragile life of flowers in the classic novel ‘Dream of the Red Chamber,’ where the petals of cherry blossoms fall, and the character Lin Daiyu weeps, gathering them up as if to preserve the fleeting beauty. Perhaps it is because we love flowers that we feel as though we are mourning their fragile lives as they wither and fall.

The Sainfoin flower is a symbol of my childhood memories, bringing back feelings of nostalgia. I remember the days when we children would gather to admire the flowers and delight in picking them to make beautiful bouquets. Sometimes, we would tuck the flowers into our hair, and we would even gather the dry branches to make little square frames to jump through. During the harvest season, we would use the fallen Sainfoin fruit to play marbles, and in the summer, my mother would make herbal remedies from the leaves. The bitter, pungent scent of the Sainfoin leaf water may have been unpleasant, but it was effective in relieving rashes and making our skin feel cooler and fresher. On hot summer afternoons, the shade of the Sainfoin tree provided a gentle, soothing refuge, lulling us into peaceful naps. The leaves were also taken to the fields to enrich the soil, helping the crops grow strong and healthy.

Now, Sainfoin flowers are a distant memory, with fewer and fewer trees left in my village. But every time the flowers bloom, their deep purple color still lingers in my heart, taking me back to those precious moments. I close my eyes, and I am transported to a time when the air was filled with the fragrance of Sainfoin blossoms, and the beauty of the purple flowers became a part of the love and dreams shared between the villagers.

Even now, Sainfoin flowers continue to bloom, painting the horizon with their violet hues, reminding me of times long past. Their beauty fills me with wistful thoughts, as the petals silently fall into the winds of memory, wondering if anyone still remembers those days:

You still remember the purple Sainfoin flowers
Scattered along the village roads
Like raindrops hesitant to fall
Lingering in the air, quietly drifting by
Do you still remember the purple Sainfoin flowers
Remaining in the dreams of my heart
The years have etched those memories
As March arrives, the flowers still fall in your home.

Đặng Nhã

February fades into the aftermath of the Lunar New Year, and before long, the month will slip away. February, delicate like a thin cloud, drifts across the bright spring sky. This month leaves behind a bittersweet longing. February is the month of the soft purple blooms of the Sainfoin flower in my countryside.

As a child, every year after the holidays, the small alley in front of our house would be covered with the rich purple color of Sainfoin flowers. I’ve loved these flowers since I was too young to understand what love meant. Every afternoon when my mother called me to sweep the yard, I would sit quietly, watching the flowers fall gently to the ground. My mother would have to call me several times before I finally picked up the broom. My father would smile and say, 'Once you’ve swept them, more will fall.' The Sainfoin flowers are fleeting, their beauty arriving only as February softly returns.

The life of a Sainfoin flower is brief, yet its impact is lasting, stirring memories and affection in many hearts. Each fragile petal, a gentle shade of purple, reminds me of a young girl on the brink of womanhood, shy and reserved behind the fresh spring leaves. The Sainfoin tree sheds its old golden leaves, standing bare and stark in the winter cold, waiting for spring to bring forth new life.

These flowers are tied to memories of lean seasons, when my mother would sip her tea while gazing into the distance, quietly thinking about the family’s future. My father, ever so gentle, would look at us children and momentarily forget about his cigarette, his thoughts as deeply dyed purple as the flowers.

The Sainfoin flower would softly fall upon my sister’s hair, as she gathered the petals, almost as if preserving a secret promise of love. That year, she left for her new home, leaving behind the little alley where I had once followed her with a bouquet of flowers in hand, silently watching her walk down the path. The purple of the flowers seemed to travel with her, a bittersweet parting, leaving me alone with the empty alley, once filled with blooming Sainfoin flowers.

The Sainfoin flower stirs memories of rain-dappled days, making even the bumpy countryside roads feel softer. The distant sound of drums from the village festival echoed amidst the purple haze, as rushed, quiet gestures and secret glances added to the fleeting beauty of the flower season.

Years passed, and I thought the memory of those purple blooms had faded into the past. But today, in an unexpected place far from home, my heart skipped a beat when I saw the familiar purple of the Sainfoin flower once more.

Thanh Nguyễn

One morning, as I opened the door and wheeled my bike out to prepare for work, I was taken aback by the sight of the purple Sainfoin flowers at the entrance of the alley. The tiny clusters of delicate flowers, with their soft purple hues mixed with white, spread across the peaceful village, filling me with an unexpected sense of nostalgia.

I stood in awe, admiring the dreamy scene of the Sainfoin flowers, my heart gently lifted with sweet emotions. I couldn’t help but recall the verse by Nguyễn Bính in his poem "Spring Rain": “On that day, the spring rain drifted gently, and the Sainfoin flowers fell in layers, constantly filling the ground.” The beauty of these purple flowers in spring is so captivating that it has inspired countless poets. I wished I could embrace the whole sky filled with those gentle flowers to enjoy their tranquil beauty.

As a child, we would gather the pretty Sainfoin flowers into circles to wear on our heads or string them into necklaces to play bride and groom. Such simple moments filled us with excitement and joy throughout the day. My childhood passed through many spring seasons, each marked by the bloom of Sainfoin flowers.

Now, the village roads are paved with concrete, neat and tidy. Only a few Sainfoin trees remain, seemingly trying to hold onto the old, soulful essence of the past. This humble flower, like the village it grows in, requires no special care or attention. It simply grows, blooms, and bears fruit, leaving behind a deep, warm connection in the hearts of those who remember it.

The Sainfoin flower is fragile in the face of the spring breeze. A single gust can make the petals fall and blanket the road. These delicate flowers find their way into the hair of young girls, leaving a trail of longing in the air.

Elegantly simple, the Sainfoin flower mirrors the pure and gentle spirit of the countryside people. It is here, in the presence of these flowers, that I find the deep, peaceful calm I long for. Watching the purple blooms fills my heart with tender emotions, as yet another season of Sainfoin flowers arrives.

Đoàn Thị Hạnh