(Macro photo of ice crystals on a maple leaf)
I was taking care of some garden chores this cold, winter morning when I noticed dozens of beautiful ice-rimed leaves and ran to get my camera before the sun erased it all. Dew drops were already sprouting to life. Here’s the poem I wrote after coming inside to thaw.
In these small worlds
a universe
a fragile life
built in their short history.
Slivers of translucent glass
born in cold, dark hours
to vanish at first light.
But, who am I
to speak of time
when the weight of centuries
cannot crush the ageless stars?
One hundred thousand years
of sweeping shadows
chase the moon, while
primal clocks tick tock
like death knell drumbeats
to mark the day-long lifespans.
A sleeping Sisyphus
controls our tides
while we are born addicted
to time
to life
to dreams of
everlasting
when it’s enough
to just be
born.