I’m not yet able to put into words
how much I long for the soaring
reach of the tallest trees which have
fallen around me in due season.

I remember the seemingly sudden
force which toppled these tall oaks.
I see them lying on their sides now,
slowly decaying into fecund soil.

Their fall plays out in me like a
sudden violent act of the inevitable,
yet it continues on even today
in slow motion, foresight unseen.

Silence honors a widening
space of emptiness.
The fallen have left their wake.
Whether life soars or fractures,
our witness also leaves its mark.

Step carefully into the snowy woods.
Draw nearer to the growing reach
of slow dying and decay.
If we closely listen, all life ends
and begins with bangs and sighs.

Within the toppling of our rootedness,
new life germinates in dark places.
Hope springs up again. This we know
in slow time, yet still, we mark these
as continual crossings in motion.

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