Pillars of Birch XVIII

At the edge of the grove, the world falls away. The tall and pale birches mark the boundary between the known and the unknown. The masked figure, standing still, listens to the wind—the air hums with change, the turning of the seasons, and the silent knowledge of trees.

“To find yourself, think for yourself,” wrote Socrates. And here, in this stillness, in this moment suspended in time, there is room to think, wonder, and step outside the self and into something larger.

The mask is neither presence nor absence—it is a possibility. The birches are neither walls nor paths—they are thresholds. And the figure is neither lost nor found, but simply here, in this moment, in this light, in this endless hush of spring.