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.