As much as I love to read, I'd rather look at things that give me a quiet inner pleasure, like trees. Kilmer was right, a poem is seldom as lovely as a tree.
Trees, like people, come in all sorts of sizes and styles and, like the rest of us, often gain a dignity that comes only with age. This lumpy old fellow lives in the park just across the river from my home. I pass him often, while walking Ansel, and wonder what he has seen during his many years on earth. He does look tired and seems unable to hold up his arms as he did when he was younger.
Some trees find their way into service in the form of lumber or fuel. Others fall apart in death, and their pieces go off to sea to float about, see the world and get polished by the waves. These, too, once they've found their way back to land, provide a visual pleasure for those lucky enough to come upon them.
Others, alas, complete their life's cycle by returning to Mother Earth to nurture the next generation. We could do worse in searching for a role model.
Paddle safe...
DS
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