The Sweetest Ring

if I were a tree, I'd have sixty-two rings. The fifth one being the thinnest. There was hardly any rain that year. Blackness was at its thickest. Everything was very still... except for the shining scythe. Can't say for certain what ring would be the sweetest. Number thirty-five comes to mind. It was marbled with humble-somewhat wizened. Fresh wounds bled lavender... dreams were glazed in mint. For the first time I grazed the orbit of pure contentment. Maybe the sweetest ring lay just ahead. Just a spray of prayers away from the heartbeat of the heavens.