The decades pass,
the seasons change.
I pass beneath the trees,
stripped bare at the moment,
the bark and branches at final shade
of a deathly brown,
with whatever creatures burrow inside.
It’s of a piece,
and I’m at peace, despite the wars I fought.
I did my part, carried my weight, rallied my
spiritual troops
in the cold and dark, getting up to
push back against setback.
But the ashes of spring have blown away
on the breezes, the blizzards, the rainstorms.
They’ve dissolved and run into the soil from
dew, and mist, and fog.
And every now and then,
my blood.
I’m tired now.
But there’s no one else here,
and no one is coming
even to say hello, much less rescue me.
The ashes of spring make no sound
beneath my feet, and
brown, bare branches have no nascent
scent of new spring blooms.
There’s only the tail end of winter now,
hanging on with claws just inside the door.
I have no choice but to be patient.
I have no choice but to go on.
Beyond Panic 