Quite some time ago
a lifetime or two past,
not decades but years,
the bustrip screenshot
the trees who reached
for each other,
intertwining,
catching each other’s leaves
dropped with care;
love-gifts
promise new flowers.
Let the record show
that nothing can last:
no embraces, nor tears,
an ignoble rot
makes mulch of our dreams.
Soil smothers
and unbreathing
rootstock dies too; trees
no longer there,
only missed
by bus travellers.
And the seasons flow
in both directions:
a locus-point here
for the fallen forgotten.
But listen – the eons
can uncover
the flap of a wing
and the miniscule breathing
of the hare,
which rake rifts
in the forever.
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