I go to nature to heal, I go every day. And though it always feels the same, it never is. I rummage through the past and present, I go looking for what others leave behind.

I didn’t expect the moon to be out, or the golden cedar fronds on the ground, a tapestry of found art like us, temporary.

I scan the beaches for what’s buried or forgotten, to give me something to take back and hold up to the light, and look through — and though it may be common, useless or crude, it brings my life meaning to find these things, to give them homes.

Now the boughs and fronds hang low, wanting to fall, and it’s a necessary restoration, the earth pulling itself inwards, a culling of leaves from the stem, you take what’s necessary and leave the rest.

I’ll sit with the falling needles and remember my senses and feel alive once more with nature: here a crow calls, the wind comes…and it’s the beginning of the end all over again.

Categories: prose, writing

Tags: fall, mindfulness, mindfulness poetry, nature, nature inspiration, nature therapy, pacific northwest, prose, William Pearse writer, writers block, writing