There is such incredible beauty when the forest weeps.
Though the far shore of the tiny high mountain lake had disappeared in the mist seen wafting down over the top of the ridge and descending wraith-like upon the little meadow, the near shore was resplendent in splashes of color dominated by beautiful blue lupin but with two members of the sunflower family peeking out among the green and blue and purple as if each of the pair were timidly suggesting to the photographer, “Me too! Me too!”
Upon closer inspection, the mist-created water droplets on the yellow petals clung tenaciously, seemed to form instantly, none leaving, not rolling down its beautiful face, suspended, somehow even more beautiful for its tears.
Likewise, as if frozen in place, on the very delicate tips of the very ends of each of the needles of overhanging tree branches, were crystal balls as if someone had decorated for the holidays.
And each of the gossamer strands of the spider web – so delicate, so artistically woven as if drawn to the accompaniment of a musical score, each sweep of the baton creating in space the lines that then formed the web – each strand was resplendent with a rainbow prism of color.
There is such incredible beauty when the forest weeps.
Beautifully written. Another book?
Thank you Annie. Very possibly another book. What I have discovered in these wilderness wanderings where the forest weeps and the mountain in all its majesty commands silence, is that readers on social media are not silent for as I open my own heart to what I discover out and up there on this pilgrimage of sorts, returning instinctively to some of the places where my wife and I dated 54 years ago, readers are sharing their own life and love and loss such that we have become fellow travelers united by grief and we are finding through mutual encouragement that grief is loosening its grip.