To say that with winter begins
the frustrations of mortality is inaccurate,
but I do not feel such an ungrateful
passing below the empty trees.
There is a solidarity
amid the delicate chain reactions
of the abandoned sibling of Persephone.
The burden of our elaborate
wiring is a promise understood.
That the bell will ring for us
I now understand as a plea,
a scheme for the living who, struck
by the fading shrills, with claims
in the schemes of diminishment,
offer their gifts in faith of riches
when the bell lies on their deaf ears.
I am unsure even that the tree
still grows after our falls.
Is there trend to the senescence,
the leavings may nourish or
yet maybe they will suffocate,
or are we a forest?