It is a quiet
slow motion film,
a frame by frame affair,
falling molecules of air.
There’s only perfection
in its silence.
Only gentle prodding
in its violence.
Sometimes dry bones
and shallow breath,
a wasting away
to nothing left.
Sometimes sudden
and without warning,
to sleep in the night
and miss the morning.
It is a sword
not wanting to kill.
It does its work
against its will.
It is the road
out of town,
streetlamp-lit when
the sun goes down.
It is the wisdom
in regret,
dead leaves in autumn,
a way to forget.
It is a lonely man
walking between towns.
It is buried treasure
deep underground.
It is the spirit horse,
the leaving train,
the ship setting sail
in evening rain.
There is a gust of wind,
a rustle of leaves,
and I’m home again
in front of the tree
I never climbed.
