Alone

I sat still in the moment's silence, Listening to the songs of the birds— A melody of varied frequencies, A harmony is born from nature's gifts. I gazed at the radiant sky, I watched the clouds, Artwork of a perfect Craftsman. They stretch, move, and disperse in space, All in a time set and approved by their Creator. I turned to look at a bird on a wire, Unafraid of its rhythmic movement, it preened its feathers. It later took off, basking in the warmth of the friendly sky. I observed the trees, Dancing to the orchestra of the wind. Their exuberant foliage is a blessing of spring; Their healthy boughs are a result of a generous intake. I wondered how soon they would be gone— Our dominance and insatiable craving for aesthetics have encroached on their survival. I reflected on how my mother tended her garden. I thought about how she made sure we had trees planted in our yard, How she told us stories about the forest and its mysteries, How her face glowed when her garden thrived and bloomed. I pondered how I found myself walking her path. Suddenly, I was jolted out of my reverie— It was a call from my mother. She talked about how her purple flowers had finally turned the corner. I smiled at the excitement in her voice. Her love for nature has allowed her to age gracefully; I believe she has made the wisest choice. May 3, 2025.