I come to the edge of the Pine Barrens not certain as to
what to expect, a place that reinvents itself often, yet always remains the
same, fire gutting it so frequently as to leave its once lush branches bare,
having become so accustomed to being consumed, its seeds won’t spout without
fire, the pain the Phoenix must endure in order to retain its immorality, and I
wonder as my footstep crunches the cindered remains, is the pain worth the
outcome, whether our place envies other places where the trees give birth to
rain rather than flame, and spend their lives in the monotony of unaffected
years where nothing much changes except the seasons.
No comments:
Post a Comment