In the age of stark sunlight, leaves whisper in a language of paradox. We trek towards environmental enlightenment, armed with ignorance—a near-perfect ingredient in our organically sourced salad of societal failure.
Why, one must ask, do the saplings resent our ambitious plans? Perhaps in their microscopic hearts—a conundrum binds irony tightly to soil. Shoveling Breath outlines my ambitious failure to communicate with the bark, whose wisdom is buried under 6 feet of self-doubt and reclaimed lumber.
Let’s appreciate a moment. Picture a tree, voluptuous yet crippled, aureole enfolding concepts of sustainability. “This is our forest!” they cheer as branches snap under weighty affiliations with apathy—reasons overflow like sap during a March thaw.
There exists a cosmic comedy in the deliberate acts of tree cruelty: the chainsaw, the landscaping crew reinstating a lawn of uniformity—one can almost hear the laughter as roots writhe within their cerulean prisons.
Unions in Twigs will enlighten you further on why community gardening flourished right before it wilted—along with our patience.
Ah, Nature? An artist shrouded in thorny disguise, sketching iconoclastic representation. To nourish is to neglect, to love is to wander around like a lumberjack in a vegetarian café.