Summer’s broods are feathered now;
the roses are frozen. Frost etched,
they stand prominent, immune to change.
They will remain so, held up by sheer will
until snow blankets them
into blissful oblivion.
The calendar does not mark the end of time.
Reality is limited by our senses, but core
and mantle, star and black hole —
they do not rely on our perception. Beware
false disasters. When autumn tinges earth
it is easy to believe our limitations.
We might chop the tree and burn the wood
and leave the forest gaunt with our destruction
but, when our bones have bleached in sun
for days unnumbered by the best imaginations,
with greater eptitude will rise up
from the ashes. The rock endures,
the sky is unbroken. New springs
will bring new hatchings. The eggs will pip,
the chicks will break free. Summer’s broods
Pray that we awaken from this edge of sleep,
from this darkness of unknowing.
May we be as stone in stormy weather.
Let time take care of Time. This is our day.
May we rise from it