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?
No comments:
Post a Comment