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Untitled 1

Word Count: 194


It’s there, barely, but it’s there. A maple seed, drifting through the air, floating aimlessly as it swirls by my eyes. In that moment, I see what it could become; a tree with strong roots, quintessentially unique leaves, a beautiful rouge come fall. Brilliant, bountiful branches, each with their own special stories to tell, holding their own weight, an ecosystem of thought supported. And it floats by.

There are more seeds. They, too, float by, going beside me, soaring above me, streaking past me. Some land in my hair as I look up, and a bright light shines. As I look down to focus, pencil scratching on paper (or keys clacking on keyboard), a lossy transfer occurs. And then the seed falls off my head, and I stop.

I feel rooted, sometimes, arms out wide. I continually write my own story as I grow, and my arms support the weight of my dreams, but I only have two. Ten fingers, more granularity, a greater surface area. And the seeds float by.

One day, I will take a step, creak my branches definitively across my body, and catch a seed. Maybe today is that day.

/writings/