Life is an infinite continuum, feeding on its own death.
Our mortality, real and imagined, lives within.
We can always see these truths with a discerning eye.
The mirrored images that seem like two, are but one,
a parallel universe whose paths cross like a wisp of wind,
we are all of one time, like prose and poems
written in separate centuries, but of the same struggle.
There, always there, truth never hides,
except for those who don’t seek it
for fear of what they might find.
From light to dark we fly in different directions
though toward the same destination.
What matters is what we do on our flight.
Do we see the paths of leaves as they float on the pond,
the reflection of the sky beyond, and the trees,
who have now shed their leaves but will reflect full in the spring;
beneath the leaves, the roots of the lily pads
and the stare of a wary carp who looks
from his world as we do from ours?
We must find time on our journey to read, play a game,
or simply sit and wonder at the marvels around us,
for death will come in its own time…