As a child it was come to be known; a simple flower called, Indian Paintbrush.

Such simple days with such simple ways. So easy to see a natural painting alive and breathing.

Today, so much in  a world a man working the insides of building a home while outside, so much life blooming, growing, showing, speaking, laughing, singing, breeding, dying, sprouting, being…

Nothing of man lasts forever. Nothing of man is needed. Nothing of a world filled with such fervor of self of being could ever,…, to think though… ah yes, to think.

And why?

Growing brightly as if on fire, so many Indian Paintbrushes.

Beautiful and as so many wildflowers, actually a smell to boarder on stinky.

It started this day and it ended as well. So much beauty, so much life, so much, so much, so much… and then the smiles.

First the Paintbrush. But that was only a start. A beginning sentence in a paragraph, a chapter, book, library…

And so many other flowers with spiders, worms, birds, deer… The volume of vibrations… almost overwhelming.

A hummingbird with another making mischief and looking guilty.

A Sun almost obscure in smile and hiding

Tree’s that would never be silent again until the next Winters cold weather.

Everywhere.

Everywhere i looked and listened…such a great pleasure.

Finally, those moths who were so frisky and pretending to be butterflies… the moment truly

a

treasure.

(silence)

and to think, it all began so long ago in so many lifetimes of yesterday

the pleasure of such simple treasure

such is the real magic of the Indian Paintbrush, sentinel  simple beauty of simple nature, painting me a map to what is real, what is true, what is needed. A painting still being painted and when finished a painting i will forever be thankful.