Ruin in the woods – ruin to be
Time is but time if punctuated
All at once, the bird that rose up singing,
Wings whizzing thorough base.
A sudden sigh of love in bed.
White bellied fish
That pierce the water’s surface.
A hasty winter’s spring day.
A summer’s autumn storm.
All speech like punctuation,
Endless it seems – thus never ending
Yet, only fools speak of eternity,
And do not know the real silence.
Time, in each dying thing,
Is suffering extinction.
The fledgling leaf of early spring
May give a hope of resurrection,
Renewal of lust,
Yet, all will end in an absolute zero.
Though it takes time – die time must