Beauty bursts forth;
astonishing spray of sparkling yellow
arches over the darkened path
sodden with already lost leaves.
The emerald holly
waves jewelled branches
full of lustre;
laughing at wan winter’s expense.
Just a tiny
part of a tree
is actually
alive,
the rest empty;
cells of dead wood
filled with so much
beauty
& still they grow.
The river wide, shallow;
there must be something wrong
with one
who has chosen to face downstream*
& yet…
I do.
Too enamoured with running from the past
helter-skelter,
twisting, turning through the bare trees.
Some creatures need
others to survive;
it’s impossible otherwise.
I should just trust
in the
magic & music of
the universe
*Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard