My Path
The winter winds speak through the trees until their whispers become a roar, twisting their tips together.
So often the words are lost, even when the message is hurtling across the land, just waiting to be heard.
We sit captivated by the waning of the moon and the seasons of the earth, and the tides that have always rolled.
We now see that we have created the walls that stand in our own way, imposing ourselves over the mysteries that have long eluded us.
The flow of these things are only broken by trying to understand them. There are no bridges or tunnels or hidden shortcuts.
We can only sleep with the land and be carried by the sea; we can only ride the wind and get lost in the fire.
We can only walk the path.
So often the words are lost, even when the message is hurtling across the land, just waiting to be heard.
We sit captivated by the waning of the moon and the seasons of the earth, and the tides that have always rolled.
We now see that we have created the walls that stand in our own way, imposing ourselves over the mysteries that have long eluded us.
The flow of these things are only broken by trying to understand them. There are no bridges or tunnels or hidden shortcuts.
We can only sleep with the land and be carried by the sea; we can only ride the wind and get lost in the fire.
We can only walk the path.