The tree reached up to the sky, desolate and derelict
It's moribund image that of a skeletal hand thrusting from the grave, awash with
new found life.
It seemed almost painted on to the gloomy backdrop of grey clouds
inky darkness smeared across the horizon.
I watched, saying nothing. The sight had jarred into my senses, like a replay of magpies stuttering
across my path earlier that day, spreading out from the treetops.
And still, I watched. Not the tree itself, we had passed it as soon as
found it, the bus knows no scenic route procrastination. But in my mind,
I saw it. There is light now.
After the clouds, there is rain, and after the rain there is life, nourishing
and fertilising, after the bleakness of winter, we see life anew.
There is light now, growing stronger. Faint, but gathering momentum. Those that
listen can hear. Those that feel can see, those that live can breathe, those that
love, can know. For the brief harmony of Nirvana, the union and entwining
of the self and the divine, a lifetime's work can be realised. Still, light and
warmth. More noticable, ever expanding. I breathe the same air as those
around me. We drink the same water. We eat from the same ground. Yet
a million different thoughts separate a million of us. A million different visions
born of the same source. And then I remember. It's all just a trip. Safe
journey. Enjoy the ride.