Ephemerals
By Gregory Tullock | Asheville, North Carolina, USA
I tread this mountain path over rock and root, through firs and ferns. A vibrant carpet of moss gives the woods an ageless quality on this early spring day, and I ponder how short my human life is in the face of such longevity. For I am here but a brief time, while the forest persists through countless generations of men. And yet, even the mighty oak must one day fall. Even the sturdiest stone will erode and crumble to dust. Perhaps we are not so different after all. Each of us will sprout forth from the earth in our own particular way and live out our allotted time, and each will return in the end to the same fertile formlessness.
What have I to fear in this world? I must but live out my sun-kissed days and then let go into the quiet night. I shall detach myself from the world like an autumn leaf relinquishing its hold when the cool winds blow. Like a feather dropping softly down from a bird in flight. What have I to fear? Where could I fall but onto the earth itself, the very ground of my being?
I wander off the trail and step carefully through violets and spring beauties, trout lilies and trillium. Picking my way through the beautiful undergrowth of life. The undergrowth of our existence.
fallen wren
fleeting beauty
returns to the root
This piece has been published as part of the collection, Clouds in Paper.
Cover Image by Mareks Steins via Unsplash
