This winter I saw death as if I
once had married her and knew it wasn't true.
The ones we think have died are
figments of a ripe imagination as is the one who thinks it has survived.
Above the birch and cedar is the
fact of open sky.
Like consciousness, its winds are
ever-changing, and like pure awareness, it's unmoved
by even whirlwinds that have
reached the size of Category 5 named hurricanes.
There comes a time when time itself
will end, but that in which the space of time has risen,
like thought-sized bubbles in a
pencil-drawn cartoon, is as the page that always is, beyond all acts of such
erasing.
And moreover, I never turn.
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