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.
