Remembering: Phase 1b

At the start of summer, I did not forget that the jittery FaceBook posts or vaguely enclosed Twitter rants I simply remembered something more important. I started to notice the fallen trees reclaiming a burnt past like this cycle of life simply belonged to butterflies. It may have. With freedom branching out at every corner, with love making waves across the boundaries between what the world wants and needs. Money may be made out of these growing forest, but it provides more havoc than sustainability can afford from a surplus of this irony. Sprouting trees. Still. They breathe out good and breathe in bad. The biggest hearts in the oldest homes. Birds nestlings flew here once, now they are expanding on other sides of a continent I've never owned enough paper to venture to, but when I write I always have enough paper and I always travel everywhere. It may not look as if I have much, yet I am a bountiful wonder of light and love. I lift my heads to a scorching sun and soak the wine-fine energy to my core. I let myself be and in this moment I am whole. Each moment. I soak it in for all the glory it possesses for I will never have the chance to return here. Sit beneath any tree, share energies and meditate together and write and smile and stop and breathe and stop and breathe and stop and breathe. In. The essence of nature, all the beauty I never seem to care it offers. Out. All the trivial trials of a physical life. At the start of summer of last year. I remembered too little and too much yet I forgot how to be. Now I know better than to let my life cycle mimic anything but pollinating butterflies.