The afternoon breeze is like a pen with an endless supply of ink. The leaves are the pages and the passage of time the story. For every story there is a reader, and for every reader there is an interpretation.
The beauty of art depends foremost on the beauty of the artist and his ability to lay this beauty down on his instrument; on the canvas, on the paper. We don't yet know who wrote the story on the leaves - we've heard a few of his pen names - regardless the leaves let us know that his heart is beautiful. The beauty of art depends secondly on the beauty of the voyeur, and his capacity or willingness to accept the artist's beauty in his own heart.
For the longest time I've been blind to this beauty. Mistaking the leaves for the tree, and the tree for the forest, I've missed out on so many levels of the story of nature. Beauty is like sunlight, and through the smallest crack it can find its way through, like today. Today I have a chance to enjoy the story. Today each leaf tells its own story. The trees regain their beauty, the forest its depth.
1 comment:
beautiful... very nicely said.
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