Restoring lost life

The land seems more awake above the ground and in the air a few feet higher than I and then again at my level as I inch beneath winter-bare trees and smell the rising sap in giant reds and pines that never sleep but always keep that pulsing upward thrusting toward the highest light of lights.

I wait for breath to fill my beating chest amidst the bright white heads that bob and jostle noiselessly for space beneath my clumsy feet and see there isolated bright uncomplicated beckoning beacons red and smooth as silk I never held before within my sight.

My senses know relentless healing as the earth wakes warmed in radiating rays and new life begins restoring days and damaged ways around the world and this the massive globe on which we live turns as many flowers do to face the warm sun bright.

Aggressive restoration seems natural to me in its keeping that which we destroy in greed to feed unhungry souls with food we do not need to but in that self-seeking greed we feel the right to somehow fight to keep our might to be so freed.

So thankfully I sit beneath the open sky amidst those winter-naked trees that stand immovably unshaken at their roots that never waken in the light above the ground but then that sound of cuckoos calling, larks ascending then enthralling as their falling in a tumble without words.