Outside, in
the warm west wind
hills rise, eclipse
the sun.

Lift and fall
from trees – each a shaken
counterpart to Eliot’s flowers –
brindle autumn leaves.

Left-handed bloom a red
gash on the side table
petals agape
falling in that silent withering way.

A lens winnowing all
to that, there, then;
here is no beginning
and no end.

Lift and fall the hills
turn towards and away
the endless night and never
the always and only one day.

This is about how we always see things from our own perspective, and from our current moment in time, as if it was somehow more important than the others. I tried to write the whole thing in present tense to convey a sense of eternality.