Another cold morning.
Exhale clouds
and inhale
the death of another summer.
Soaking the fire
deep into the coals.
Turning to charred carbon
and empty space
the wide forest.
This is where the new thing comes from.
It cannot reside
in a concrete box,
at least,
not for very long.
It cannot be found
in the tangled warren
of streets and backstreets
in Hong Kong, Paris, or New York.
No,
if the end of days
touched those places,
all there would be
is death and ruin.
It would take a long time
for genesis to take a foothold there,
but here;
even death is alive.
As the steel grey sky
gives way to winter snow,
the harvest reaps
and every hand finds work.
The trails are stalked,
the gardens stripped and furrowed;
food prepared
for the coming
of the long, dark night.
Soon,
long shadows
seek their way amongst us
and the death of days
draws all of us together.
There is no pain,
nor harrowing persecution;
just what must come
and come it does.
The price for rebirth
has always been death,
so we have always been
hard to kill,
but willing to die.
The smoke rises from the chimney
and the autumn funeral parade
passes by in colorful attire.
The end of another year
and the beginning of a new.
Another cold morning
and we know
the worst is yet to come,
but that is the price
that has always been paid
for rebirth.
HG -2018
