Transformation is transcendent. Verily there are ten thousand seasons but autumn feels like most of them.
The other day was overcast and the early changing leaves across the river burned—
not because of vivid actuality but memory lit the shore with ten thousand words.
Today the sun was out and every tree was in a different stage of colorful deconstruction—
every leaf a monarch in the making. I guess the only empress is the empress of emptiness.
All of this is playing on the silver screen of consciousness where 'who is born' and 'what will die' are just imaginary numbers.
When awake, consciousness is all knowing, but deep asleep, I don't know. Trick and treat.
Memory is the mirror in which the absolute is self-aware. Undivided, loving, apolitical, and intentional, imagination is divine.
And beyond belief. So in conclusion this haiku—a leaf is falling absolutely here.
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