The sky threw off its dawning uncertainty.
Declared itself Blue.
Crystalline like the Pink
of the camellia I carried.
An offering to Ancient Oak.
The wind caressed my face.
I flung out my arms in embrace.
The pines sighed
and I wondered, “what if I had never heard this sound before?”
The pining trees—are they not wondrous?
My ears, now awakened, caught the whistling dove,
the hollow clatter of the woodpecker, the twittering sparrows,
a train’s whistle, carried by the wind from miles away.
And I wondered,
“Where had that wind been before it met the train?”
It is cold, carrying tales of white and ice on its breath.
I hear the crunching of ground beneath my feet,
the train’s whistle, and the wind which has come from the pole.
Is it not wondrous?
I left the pure, pink camellia
in the arms of Ancient Oak
Laying my hands on its trunk, reminded
I am of this world.
I am of its cycles
And in my impermanence I am free
To be in this moment