Turn Over

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

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