Tristan Robert Lange

Sleepy Hollow

The earth, thawing,

Prepares a warming,

Moist, cradle for

Life’s seeds.

Once attached,

Strong,

Enclosed by the chaff—

Held in by the spike,

Undefiled

And without disturbance—

The wind blowed,

The rain pounded,

The tall grass endured.

Until it didn’t.

Slowly, surely,

It began to age,

Its color collapsed,

Its hue humbled,

Less vibrant,

Faded—

The color of straw.

Each blade a pale pallor,

Hardened,

Wooden,

Dried-up,

The smell of decay

In Sleepy Hollow,

Where each seed detaches

And is blown off

Like the head of a Hessian

Horseman with horrific hubris,

Charging a calibrated canon.

Together, these headless stalks—

Golden without their lustre—

Stand tall, but doomed,

Destined for winter’s weakening weight,

Crushed under death’s design,

Frozen,

brittle,

b r o

k

e

n

,

Fo r g o t t e n.

Life’s seeds are all that remain

Locked in slumber.

Awaiting their chance

To soften, to sprout, to shoot,

To grow, to harden,

To weather, to wither,

To die.

Life carries on

As the grass withers

And the flowers fade.

A cycle captive—

Caught up in

Futility.

© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.