One must find beauty in something.
Always.
For Kenneth, it's the rhythmic sway of leaves.
Once, he despised them,
the whispers of a God he longed to strike down.
Now, he thinks of bees.
Painful if stung.
Fearful, even.
But when tended with care,
they overflow with honey,
quenching the driest tongue.
The tree, however, is no bee.
Shade it provides, yes.
But with shade comes hunger.
With shade comes ruin.
It devastates,
not cultivates.
Kenneth sees this.
He sets aside the rose glass,
and looks at the world as it is.
Not the world he wanted,
the one that remains.
A tattered notebook rests near.
He lifts it gently,
as if its pages might crumble.
His hands, blistered from his axe,
move with reverence.
Here, he will write.
Here, he will remember.
Every word—
a seed of memory
he refuses to let vanish.