So here we are locked in a quickening,
another kind of innovative reckoning; Even though we braced ourselves so many times,
it seems we weren’t prepared to leave our lives behind.
There is a sort of sadness in the calm, and so we crack a smile to pretend that this is what we wanted all along – while constantly denying it’s the end.
What care have dying leaves of winter
when at long last they meet with the cool ground?
What trepidation fills the hearts of swallows
when September calls them to the river’s mouth?
And yet we tremble at the prospect
of sorting through this mess without a screen,
even though the light that hides behind the hill
will turn this nightmare into a sweet dream.
Plant firm your little sprouts before the Dawn,
if only in your humble pots of dirt; For though it feels like gardening in a graveyard,
these plots of earth can take away the hurt.