Beneath the surface
Few will look or care to see
Hidden stars shining
It has been there for months, part of the structure of a garden I see every day. It was the rain, darkening the fibres, that showed me the beauty of the wood. I wonder how such a pattern could form within a living tree, saddened that its heart is only revealed in death.
I wonder too at the dark irony that dismembers living beauty to serve our need to recreate a pale reflection, tamed to our hand.
Spark of life within
Cloistered in each living heart