the end of an era can be
the passing of a year,
the passing of a day,
or the passing of a single moment

the world wants
and collects
and demands–
and i wonder what the trees think
when they sink
into their growing obligations
and seasonal dress codes

you are always here,
even though you are there

the way the sun rains on leaves,
pouring its heart out,
spilling heat and light
over each scalloped ruby,
inspires a gentle and quiet reverence