I see beauty breathing in the foliage, rustling the tender greenery that blushes in response. My hair billows out, waxes and wanes with the swirling breath of daisies and peonies. A blossom, an ant; a thicket, a squirrel; a thorn, a cricket: it all depends on how earnestly you wish to perceive life itself, insufflated in the most minute of creatures – acknowledging He from Whom such fecund gust blows. Brushstrokes play tag, running across the sienna-coloured, crêpe paper sky, dousing it in freshly-brewed pigment. “Where am I?” I ponder, “What stage of life do my soles now tread?”. An instant passes. And in it I find, ensconced as a pearl in an oyster, the voice that tunefully hums away my regrets, mistakes, and convoluted thoughts: “The only antidote to mystery is hope.”
Alas, hope!
Hope.
Hope will save me;
Hope will save me, evermore.
Workandramblings 