As I wander through and avenue of trees,
Humming bees and an impeding knowledge
Of sneezes soon to be engulfing my senses,
I am aware of a late summer breeze
Sifting through these trees,
Plucking loose leaves from their twigs
And driving them to unknown destinies
Met with dirt and grass or even sea.
With the occasional sting of grit on my face and shins,
I grow distant from my bees and trees,
And the rising storm signalled by the breeze in the west,
And I turn to the trivial storm brewing in my breast.
How have the little things come to be so meaningless around me?
Why is it so easy to succumb to the powers of pride
And a lack of consciousness
In our physical surroundings?
Answers do not come easy in this 'make-the-other-bitch-jealous' world of ours.
But amongst the bees and trees and in the breeze simple beauty rests;
Enough to quell the storm in every breast if only we would see
What it is to be a bee or tree or breeze coming from the west.
Subtle rains fall down on me settling the dust
And chasing the bees back to their hives.
And as the grit is gently cleansed from my face,
I wonder just what it is to have peace and purpose to our circumspect lives?