Sprout

The road tends to shy away from the meadow. I don't know why. Perhaps it knows it has no place there.

I've passed by it so very many times. The asphalt nudges its way around a brook and leans precariously to the right. Almost as if it were avoiding what it could not, does not, or wishes to never, understand. Land.

I see the house there. The home, as it were. The place where I lay my head at night and rest easy and accomplished until the sun finds reason to rise again, the following morning. I see my hands in the soil, planting flowers, planting crops, planting abundance. I see the blisters I earn in planting such things.

Our nearest star sets low over the valley. It casually finds its way down, as softly as possible, kissing the last remaining remnants of whatever stands tall enough to see it's momentary slumber. The trees, the weeds, the tallest grass blade. It sends out its immortal light to find a place to linger. If only for a moment.

In the quiet places I can see myself inhaling the cool, fragrant, innocent autumn air. The exhaustion of thousands of years of renewal, redemption, invigoration, and invitation. It begs me to visit. It pleads with me to partake of what it quietly has to whisper. It desires me to remain there, if only for a season.


Sprout, old Friend.


I'm Trying.