unum

In A moment of inspiration, words are penned
Imperfect blank and meaningless,
Useless letters, abortive markings,
Fall upon the ears of the wind, unperceived until
The ears of the vigilant receive,
And in a moment of inspiration, words are penned.

Often times throughout our lives we can see that we are small. We can find that we as mortal beings are not as important as we once thought. We see life through the eyes of an outsider to humanity.
The significance of our lives fades into the background. From such a height we see that our lives are governed by the very thing we do our best to "conquer." The clouds roll in and we change our lives. The sun shines and we change our lives. The wrath of a storm kills, and the furry of the oceans drown. There is nothing for man to do to stop it. It is beautiful and terrible at once. To this divine power we are nothing, we have no reason to try to change anything, and at once in a flash of inspiration, we come to a realization. We do not inhabit or possess the earth; the earth owns and keeps us. A flash of inspiration and the rock candy melts, and we have naught but diamonds. We cannot look upon our lives and consider anything we do as a service to nature, we should see the very ground below us as a blessing from nature, a gift which could be taken in an instant from us. An entity this powerful intrigues man, who in turn will seek the source of the power and the face of the plight.
As we search we overlook the true identification of the power. We can see it the flashes of lightning. We can hear its voice in the wind upon the leaves. We can read its history in the branches of the willow. And we can feel its touch in the rain upon our faces.
Today I saw the powers divine beauty in a way I have never herd before. The great trees of my land are becoming cold,
They are loosing their tenacious grip on summer and the life of the sun. The many hands of the trees become weary and fall, blanketing the ground with a carpet of amber and yellow, awaiting the arrival of the march of the autumn spirit. So too will I wait for the march. When it comes I will follow it winding path through the creations.
Upon these thought a topic has been brought to my attention. It is with much apprehension that I bring this to the stage of written word. A young man by the name of Asa Coon has just open fired upon his schoolmates, then turning the gun to his own head, pulled the trigger. 'tis the season of death and now we are all mindful that death is around the corner, regardless of what shape or what body the spirit of death takes, she is always near, haunting everything that breaths and bringing sweet release to the soul of nature to those who have waited patiently.

With a final thought of our fragility I leave this post. Purely impersonal, and external, my thoughts expand from the ties that bind me to the earth.
Heed these words, and feel the wind upon your brow. Only then can we feel oneness with the power