Day 37

Three days to summer: sweet freedom and more time to think than is probably healthy.


Iterum

The melancholy gloom of winter gray,
Leafless trees in striking poses
Desperate for a single ray
They sway in rhythm, elegant ghosts
Trapped in decay,
A continuous cycle...

Luscious summer greens, relaxing to
The muted tones of cherry red and milky yellows
Then rusty brown as they fall to the ground
Crisp and fragile, snapping under the feet
Of young and old souls, fresh and seasoned
Walking the same path, from the first time seeing
To the final time strolling
Over those crusty, faded reminders
Of what once was and what must be
We step both forward and back
And think about what we need
And what we just want
Each time we return to these haunting Octobers,
November, December, starting over
And pushing onward.

Bound by the same celestial chains
Brothers and Sisters in existence,
Yet defensive each within his own
From humans to minuscule microbes,
From omnipotence
To quiet, indefinite repose
Of the gentle guardians over the ages.

As the guise, the facade of humanity changes
Trees still strike the same despondent silohuettes
Against the early fall sunsets
And from beginning to end
What was broken is made whole again.
From chaos, from the warmth of fresh July fervor
To death, the end of despairing repetition
Regardless of species, each take their
Place in turn in the vast chain of history.

Maybe we are here for nothing at all
Thinks the lonely old writer on the end
Of his last but definitely not last cigarette ever,
The same way leaves and the vibrant sheen
Of summer swells each come to conclusions,
Even the most tormented, horrid existences
Find their path leading to the same final resting place.