This breathing earth
The medium by which we exist
This transient mind
The medium by which we perceive –
Dry leaves rustle underfoot.
Night falls early these days,
The sun folds its light into night
Withdrawing into the cave
Into the self of being.
A quarter moon shrouded by milky clouds,
Ahh, dreaming of wind on naked skin.
Almost bare of leaves
Stripped back to its essential frame
Black against the sky,
Shivering in its apprehension of winter
The chestnut tree patient
Roots reaching deep for spring.
How is it that words, patterns of words,
Bear within them meaning
Feelings of love and hurt,
Sense and lost-ness.
River flowing without mind
Or am I mistaken in that too?
Shifting to position and rhythm
Seeking out pauses between the notes
The silences that define
Words curving into emptiness
Echoes shape shift in return,
Day dissolving seamless into night
Autumn in to winter.
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