I’ve been sweating the idea that I’ve become every-so much less Ephemily-like recently. And then it hit me. No, I haven’t. Ephemily, from the root Ephemeral. Transient, impermanent. This is yet another ebb. One not to fear, fight, or regret. Though, a small amount of wistfulness for the place I’d rather be doesn’t seem like asking too much. The moment is now, after all.
I’ve long felt like a grand tree, stretching towards the sky, sheltering those below in a confidant shadow. While my arms stretch far to touch many, my roots wither in the ground as if salted before they had the chance seek out water and nutrients.