I always imagined Canada having crystal clear skies and the air smelling of crisp leaves and Maple Syrup…Man, was I so wrong!
Words themselves are like walking along a path, sometimes it’s a curvy path, sometimes it’s a path that all of a sudden drops
And from her love of animals, grew my mom’s love of animals and my own love for animals. Our hearts yearned for the wild and mine coiled itself deeply within nature.
I’d like to think that if I were to go camping, I might limber up a bit, my stress floating away in yellow, white, black, orange, blue butterflies.
pointing towards the narrowed hallway with glassed walled windows on one side and folklore-inspired art hanging on the other. Faces carved into wood called out
The delicate baby leaves start to uncurl and open towards the sun like little fingers grasping at the heat of that holy ball of fire.
Their black feathers shimmer in beautiful hues of blues, purples,
& greens. Their piercing eyes, bright yellow, look intensively at their surroundings
Sometimes it’s hard to remember to breathe. The days bleed into each other, and eyes grow heavier and heavier, and the body becomes ridden with exhaustion that it never fully recovers from. Perhaps this is the cost of growing older. The sun spills onto the ground, warming it up as tiny green fingers poke through…
The bonds I’ve formed, those I’ve lost, the appreciation and love of nature I’ve gained are all sewn together with invisible connective tissues.