The tree is gone, and hardly anything remains of even its stump. But the green moss has grown through the winter, and the tiniest of leaves are nourished by what the tree has left behind.
What is the smallest piece of hope that you carry?
One thought on “The Tiniest Green”
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Perhaps at one with a universal wish, I do not want to live and then die with a purposeful prolongation of that time of not knowing, not communicating, not “being”. How much control I will have over this event, I do not know. It is a small nagging feeling for me.