An apple anticipates an afterlife

XIV


We cannot account for our arrival
Such mysteries lie buried in
Between the lines drawn out
In the field’s arable acreage.
Resting in stillness,
Warm repose, warming to touch
Our sensitive hearts. Our vital instinct
Is strong, it means our survival,
Yet when we asked we were simply told
‘It is just so.’ And so it is.
There is, however, something we all share
Of that we are aware, at least.

We have seen the seasons turn
We have seen the foliage unfurl,
Unravel and return.
We have felt the sway and the pull
That touches us all.
We have felt the swelling
That bends the bower with our weight,
Feeling out on a limb we wait and wait
Growing evermore desirable.
What is it we feed upon to make us thus?
And when the furs and feathers feast on us
Is it then that we loose ourselves to oblivion?

Of the one that is me, I yield.
I yield forsaking my others.
I yield to the ache that comes with age
Assuaged only in a moment of weightlessness.
For this, I yield.
The grasses are waving.
The horizon is approaching.
All is as it should be.
For the one that is me
Departure marks a new beginning.