May 24th, 2016

moon

over the hill...

I guess I must be over the hill
I'm certainly not on the top
The top would feel better
Open, free, high as the sky
No, I'm past that
Sliding
Slowly
Softly
Picking up sticks and stones
That make me ache
Stumbling
Because I can't walk right
Headed for the bottom
My target zone
A mystery still.

moon

under the tree...

Mary uncharacteristically chose the trail through the woods that evening. Though a bit longer than her usual route home the trees invited her to enjoy their shade and the damp earthy smell of the forest was beguiling to her senses. Ever deeper Mary went until the light grew dim and green. She began to feel weary and decided a short rest at the feet of an ancient weathered oak would feel good and give her energy to finish her journey.

Lowering herself to the soft ground it was as if the tree held her as once her mother had and her eyes grew heavy and soon she slept. So soundly asleep she was that she never felt the first tiny roots that wrapped themselves firmly around her ankles, then her wrists. Nor did the larger one that encircled her waist make her stir. In time the tree took her into itself. She was indistinguishable from the rough bark, lost forever to human life, but part of something much greater.