Often, life is treated like strolling through a never-ending field of rolling hills, green grasses, and beautiful blooming flowers.

The wind blows over the field, swaying the grasses with its whispers and shouts.

The hills crest far above heads, and the pits and valleys are deep bowls below us.

The flowers bloom full, colorful, and fragrant, and fill up the field as far as eyes can see.

Life is seen as experiencing this field casually, sadly, anxiously, angrily, happily, purposefully, and many times also confused and lost.

It is believed that there is infinite time to exist in the field, to experience the views, to smell the scents, and to touch the grasses, and to feel wind, rain, and snow.

Unending days are guaranteed, as are nights under the moonlight that graces the field.

Solace is taken in unwavering possibilities to experience and grow in this massive field.

Placid fragility of the delicate grasses, and the thin, tenuous petals on the flowers, is taken for granted, and is stomped, walked, and stumbled upon in the field.

Legs are trusted to carry, minds trusted to drive, hands given to feel, souls to guide, and hearts to propel.

The flowers that grow in this field are magnificent.

They are beautiful, fragrant, tall, and produce colorful petals.

They are nourished, and consumed, and spread their leaves wide and produce a formidable stem.

They weather storms, and drought, and cold, and hardship.

They survive darkness, and continually reach towards the sun.

And in a moment, one of the flowers is removed from the earth.

The plucked flower withers, and fades, all of its beauty slowly disintegrating, and dying.

The grasses and plants look upon the flower and collectively sigh.  The carefree giant, that plucked the flower, continues to stomp through the field, indiscriminately snatching more from the ground, smelling them, laughing, and casting them aside.

The wind blows, and the sun shines, and rest of the field still looks full.

But the place that the one flower occupied is dim.  The stop in the earth it occupied, is empty.  And the field, knows the loss.

Humbly yours,

J