As I write, a small tree in my back garden is weeping her leaves to the ground. I’m not sure how I know she is a she (and how I know my favourite ‘half a tree’ is a he) but it seems to be clear so I’ll run with that.
She is, with no exaggeration, neon orange. Luminous. Radiant. Glowing. On fire. She reminds me of everything I am not feeling. And yet, I can take comfort there because I know her cyclical life is my accompanist and that I can follow her lead and emulate her steps in time.
And when she goes quiet to take her rest, I’ll know that it’s ok to be quiet. I’ll know that, despite life demanding more than I sometimes have, it is ok to feel bare and to not feel like dancing. Then I’ll wait for her. And I’ll learn to dance all over again.
The room above the garage
A Moodscope member.
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