I walk beneath the trees in a desolate autumn forest.
The dead branches and faded flowers
are the bitterness of my heart.
The leaves beneath my feet, the grass long vanished,
are the self long trampled underfoot.
The crushed insects, the dead butterflies,
are the remains of a name I once carried.
The wind scatters the ashes of my skin, creating me anew.
The promise fulfills itself.
Nature is patient with its concealments.
It presses its treasures into the hollows of wood,
beyond reach and beyond question.
Elusive as a vanished god,
it watches from behind the trunks.
Whenever I turn,
it withdraws.
Yet its presence remains—
ambient and everywhere,
without specificity or trace.
I follow the trace of its absence,
and I lose myself while knowing the way.
I cast aside my map,
and only then do I uncover the maternal jewels.
Their weight settles into my hands as a sweet burden,
and that density acknowledges me without claiming me.
For the sublime is heavier than beauty,
and it is the sublime that is truly beautiful.
And so I continue walking.
― Atrona Grizel