The great tree withers.

Autumn paints red, yellow, and orange

Blooming the forest.

Haven’t done a poetry reflection in a while. This one is actually about service, which I know I’ve been lacking for quite a while. Over the available time period, I’ve been giving out masks outside, treating each as its own service experience. It may seem disingenuous, but it also seems right for myself that it’s different for everyone. The first line is about the mask for an old couple, where I thought to myself, although I help them now, they may wither soon regardless. Then I gave masks to some foreigners who, although they may understand our culture, will never properly assimilate, and that is alright. The last was for children who ran around on the streets, where I knew as I aid them with masks, they’re bound to grow up one day and become like the great trees of the forest. All in all, I must have given out 2 packs of masks to a myriad of different people over the duration of two months. And I know it would be difficult to properly include a reflection for each person, but it’s fair.