The bushes have such normal confidence in forever.  Growth, hibernation, death, disintegration and growth again is never a decision or trouble or fear or doubt.  It just is.  Berries or blossoms follow the seasonal path as for eons of eons on the planet.

The house, however, may not last more than a speck of time, comparatively.  The chairs, the table, this sweet little laptop–all will be gone in a puff of time.  Not even any memory will hold my space.

Then again, my dust will serve for another’s season of life, even if it melts into the sea for a new ocean floor.  And for a tiny time, my bones may rest on the earth next to those my kin of thundering fallen trees.

What a dear thought, that we melt into this precious earth hand in hand.  But today I am a moving tree, and watch for the subtle path of heaven that leads me into mysterious ways glory and grace to behold.