Night rises slowly
from tangled roots
dragging ocher and rust
from reluctant trees,
promising only winter.
We cannot see this,
we sense only time eroding,
slipping off until
the trees are naked.
They want only
to hide themselves
in a shimmering gown
of snow, recalling
their verdancy, imagining
another season, a season
of hope, a season
of consecration, of light,
of resurrection.
We stand emotionally
stripped on the banks
of the stream into which
we cannot step twice,
so we are left to wander
along a middle way,
to nowhere, to nirvana,
a last leaf our companion
floating upstream
into samsara.

First Published in Compass Rose Literary Journal, Issue 2 – East, May 2023
https://www.compassroseliterary.com/issue-2-east