Why was this weekend so beautiful? Amidst the freshly lain snow only found in an Ontario February, I galloped through mounds not knowing when my feet would touch the ground.
Snow definitively got into my boots; I didn’t care.
A childish pleasure of ignorance and freedom, not inundated by the expectation to be an adult. Each light breeze carried the snow from off the tree branches, sparkling as the full sun kissed each flake at the right moment, eventually reuniting with its kinfolk on the ground.
The forest was a dark and stark contrast to the fully enlightened snow hills. It was built like a graph; scenically assembled row upon row. This is a Canadian tree (I call it this because of its location; I am not a botanist).
The bark is dry and almost flaky – reminds me of the times that I don’t lotion. Shea butter usually does the trick.
The grey skin, once full of life and damp brownness, now only resemble a distant memory. The green pines still hold on to life, catching and grasping the sky angels until the weight is too much to bare. We are reminded of this every 10 mins.
I listen for the whispers of the forest – she talks to me.
A freedom often forgotten. A presence often lost in memory and wishes. I had a beautiful weekend.