The trees don't regard their lichens as eczema.

Countless stars in the universe, countless spirits in their World: and the medium has a telescope.

A bird in the sky, a dot on my canvas.

If only I could paint the sky!

A clear blue sky, empty, all yin, on which Somebody then paints a cloud of yang.

I laugh with Life. Laughing, we Embrace.

Thousands of therapies – all with but one intention.

Every tree a Witness, every branch Testifying.

“Good Morning,” I sing to the trees so still, and they dance in response.

A forest of trees dancing as conducted by the wind, Heaven's Breath.