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It is.

Can words describe the magnitude of grandeur before me?

Like God’s own cathedral.

Pillars made

not from carved stone,

but from living flesh,

drinking,

in the sunlight,

swaying

and singing

in the wind,

and every moment,

every day,

different from the last.

Growing and dying,

reshaped

by the long hand of time

for a purpose

I cannot imagine.

But the beauty of it all,

That is apparent

even to a lost soul.

I would spend eternity here,

and I have.

For even

in the moments to write this

I have felt the peace of many quiet years soothe my heart,

and the new-made air wash the venom from my blood.

If I were to stay,

and chart the flow of green moss,

like endless ribbons of rivers,

fitful and sure,

would you think my life wasted?