The Life of a Spectator
I grew. I grew up out of the mud and into the daylight, the air, the land. I sprouted leaves and buds; my roots grew deep. I knew the names of the flowers beside me, and will establish the calls of the birds.
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I used to be transplanted at some point. I used to be torn out of my soil, to a place far throughout the backyard; an unknown territory. Not all of my roots got here with me: after I was ripped from the bottom, many of them broke off and remained there. It rained and rained and rained on my new plot of soil; my leaves grew to become sodden and my blossoms pale. I longed for my outdated house, and my torn roots bled into the bottom.
However at some point, the solar shone. My leaves drank within the heat, and my blossoms turned their faces to the solar. My healed roots stretched out and loved the sensation of the wealthy soil.
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Many different flowers started to develop round me; their delicate fragrances crammed the air.
I started to thrive.
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There have been nonetheless wet days, and days of sleet and snow and wind, however I used to be now not alone. The solar crammed my days with gentle—even when hidden behind clouds—and the moon shone down on me at night time.
Life was not excellent, however it was nice. My days had a rhythm to them that appeared like poetry. I used to be content material to depend the dewdrops on the grass and cared not of the issues elsewhere.
