July 30, 2013

Judas Converted

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.