No words

This is the base of a tree that has been dying for ages. It is withered and wrinkled and twisted, almost callused. I pass it from time to time, half way between Wards Pond and Leverett Pond. With all its decay, it somehow remains quiet and luminous at the same time. Perhaps it’s just me, but it seems to be gently focused on letting go.

 There’s something that attracts me about the way this tree, and trees in general die. It doesn’t always happen all at once; sometimes it’s a slow, graceful decline, drifting back into the earth, becoming compost, moving toward whatever is coming next.

 I appreciate the grace.