The invisible wind
wends through yellowing
leaves again, stirring
dim memories, which you
may or may not
have lived-through.
But it's the sunset
pall of quiet, and attendant
strange equivalence
of motion to stillness
which really seem
to thrill you.
From here, eternity
seems to meander
out past red horizons
in either direction,
while the smells
and the textures
of creatures you're
not sure you knew
(though you seemed to)
rush wildly through
your core on their way
toward oblivion.
And of course, you're
neither willing
nor able to explain
the peace that such
an onrush of ephemeral
truth can give you,
for you've stood here
and breathed this air
often enough before
to know that the bliss
of remembrance
is its solitude.
