Rife with promise and evidence of this world
the air is infused with resin, balsam, woodchips.
 
Here amidst the innocence of all things a body
may take on the buoyancy of thinly veiled matter,
an astatic being, its center no more than breath.
 
Frailty and fortitude in this world are all we have
between the beginning and end, and if that end
is good, still it depends upon death. 
 
Light is mint green through the trees,
a brazen red splash across the clouds
golden strands of radiance skimming the open field;
and if love isn’t consolation enough, at least there is this light.