As snowflakes cover that on which they alight, silence. Even when belving under the pressure of a footstep, what is heard is as muted as the world blanketed. White stanches the daily bustle of life; it is a time for reclusion and rest and reflection. A powdered branch is still a branch and not a pseud of show for while it may no longer purpose as a perch, it, with humblest roots, may still protect that which lies below.


Whether fireworks, blazonry of the sky, or sparklers, resplendence–but more shy, the flaneuse considers the reason for celebration and ponders the achievements of both herself and her gender that reflect success of similar magnitudes. Is there an amount of bright that can heal the wounds of darkness emitted by reprehensible acts? Perhaps, but while scars may last, the warm glow of light’s accolades will attract–as a silver-tongued force–and turn hearts toward better paths. : )


Atop the summit, amidst the apex, is a best time for one to ro the self as the sky provides a comforting blanket for the soul during the mind’s reflection regarding its accomplishment. As the journey’s scars and bruises are placated by the felicitations of supporters, a part of the soul yearns for only a pottle of dried banana slices, a both tasty *and* healthy reward for finalising the feat. And, alas, the jannock side of the self knows bathing in the warmth of success is just the ephemeral reward before life’s next challenge. ; )


Wildflower stands where it stands, earning its point of view whence destiny decided it was best suited to brighten a periphery for a turn and a smile. If it feels introverted, it may remain a sunny stain; if it feels extroverted, it may unleash its seeds as rain. Wildflower may never know the denouement of its kin, aside from dispersing hope, fate, and joy–a definite win. If a cohort does grow close by, in proximity to espy, for a bee alit: “hi-not-bye”, petals will smile high and nigh. Wildflower is beauty because it is that, neither this one or that one, but both kit and cat. There is no androcracy here for each being is complete and equal of itself–the whole shebang. Some are greater than others? Wildflower says, “Meh!” Asexual clones are the purveyors of love and peace, eh? Wildflower nods, “Yea!” Missing pieces and all, equality of kindness is worth a try–heh. ; )


If one were to wait a minute for each molecule of rock to wash away, how many breaths would pass in anticipation of a change of visual perception before suspiration occurred? Would the feeling of infinity differ much from the feeling of a new chronometry based on molecules of a mountain washing away once every hundred years? If only we could baptize ourselves in such a way that our daily showers were of an officinal measure, removing all harmful impurities from not only our skin, but, also, our subcutaneous selves. While fungeous entities grow by absorbing molecules, water ‘grows’ by transporting them. So, perhaps, we, as humans, can grow in both ways as well: balancing input and output of our daily bread in order to become our strongest selves–even for the short time that we are here.

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