The tree is old. Its thick, gnarled trunk and heavy boughs twist up and tower over and around you, blotting out the sky, the land, the river. There is only the tree. Its leaves are smooth and oval, tapering to a neat sharp point. You reach out, running your fingers along one of the branches, feeling the rough ridges and rises of the bark. You reach a cluster of leaves and spying a large, even blade you pluck it. The leaf is silky smooth and soft, almost warm to the touch. As you watch, the veins of the leaf begin to glow, spreading a yellow-green fluorescence along its length, and then splashing out onto its surface, until it is blazing with light.
You hold out your palm, and the leaf spins upwards, you can feel the air tickling your skin as it turns and turns... then it stops, pointing the way forward. You note the direction, and gently take the leaf in your hand once more. You say thank you to the tree for its gift, and bid it farewell, as you take the first step on your journey.
No comments:
Post a Comment