It was an unusual night.
I smashed the past with outdated hammers, and left them behind to blame each other.
I went out to the hazel wood, because a fire was in my head. I needed to build the future. I described my dream to the trees and they nodded in denial. How could they help, being rooted in the past carrying traditions forward?
And then a miracle happened. Roots moved, and asked to be planted in new soil.
The leaves that sprout are of a different colour. The branches hold dreams of bearing fruit I have never tasted before. Mutability is the hallmark of this species. There is no promise of bearing the same fruit next year.
I don’t know what happened to upholders of the Past. Someone once told them they are the best, and they lost the will to move forward.