May it come, the dawn.

I saw the mists in the forest deep. Seeing them as they were, was the prize. The reward. Yes they shrouded the massive redwoods so that I could only see bark and low limbs. And I knew instinctively that above that gray scarf that wrapped itself below the underarms of the tree's limbs, there was green. The coastal redwoods, if they could, they would know that they belong. They are accepted as they are. And though that ever-moving cloth of damp may shroud the sight of those mighty princes and princesses of the trees, their beauty goes without saying. They stand assured. They are their own reward.

Whether I was there or not, they would be. Whether I could do anything for them or not is immaterial. I can only hope that I will see them again, perhaps someday in the sun where backlit dewdrops will push prism light to my clothes and skin. The sun, pressing through the shroud, the fabric dew, misty fog retreating and revealing the greatness that they are. Ancient beings, we all of us are. And yet the damp wetness of our bark so oft creates doubt that we will stand any longer.

Hold on to that thing. That rewarding thing that is and was and is to come. Visitors to the grove or NOT, seeing us, appreciating us for what we are in our imperfect splendor, or NOT. That is the thing. That is the one sure thing. The warm light at tree-top is more perfect and more powerful than the tiny, minuscule droplets of water that, gathered, obscure our beauty. It is the sun that turns the gray of a million droplets into the full spectrum of refracted light, the promise, the rainbow. In that dawn, each needle will hang a single rainbow-maker, where the visitor will marvel at perfection in total.

May it come, the dawn.