In the end we are just pilgrims, Marcus, on circuitous, arduous journeys, seeking something, larger than ourselves, something we do not fully comprehend but are still convinced waits at the sunlit end with all the answers.
The path is circular, you know, always leading back to where you started.
Isn’t that the only way we can make sense of the world- if we are both question and answer. Beginning and end. If we are little skies that peel back greys or blues or speckled silver to find the constant nothing.
But what would nothingness mean, unless the sky is constantly changing.
As the pilgrim walks, Marcus, maybe it isn’t the sky that changes, just the way he learns to look at it.
by an incanting bee
a soft rose ripples the dawn