Cold does not see class.
Nor race, religion –
Where you come from,
where you are now
and where you plan to go in the future.
Cold is egalitarian.
Cold is just.
When the trees wake up in a panic
wondering where their rust-hued hair
has gone –
side by side
with the children, waddling penguins in their parkas
as the school bus is late again.
It sees the past as
at best, a quaint reminder –
perhaps one to keep in a model town
for the schoolchildren to shuffle through
on a dreary Tuesday morning.
Each day – more intense.
Grown turgid; more people
with more expectations-
dreams, fears, grim realizations
all draped with a chatter as seven
billion and counting try to find
someone amidst everyone
Frost-haired men in high-buckled trousers
sitting at a well-worn diner booth, while the Earth hums
in a note they’ve long since ceased to hear.
The planned obsolescence complete,
they have become living fossils of a time
one can’t be bothered to remember.
The grass, lilting amidst speckled sun and steady breeze;
Laughs and puts forth its vibrant color for the world to see;
Amidst the knotted trees whiling away their closing years;
Children of the melting snow, knowing only ever-brightening days;
Each blade knows not the history, the joy, the tragedy;
That fields long dead were witness to;
Covered in petals, spring snows, the checkered picnic blanket;
The bare feet of men new to this world;
And the boots of a dying man, laid to rest with his bayonet;
Oaks sag with the weight of history, and;
Gaze upon the young grass that will soon wither;
As a thousand fields have done before their arching branches;
It is best to leave them to their play;
If I came upon an hourglass;
Where time flowed from what could;
To what is, then to what was once;
And held in my open palm the sand;
Of joy, sadness, loss, and redemption;
Would I want to know what story the grains;
Yet to fall would tell?;
Or would I wait for time to etch;
The story of my life, where each chapter;
Held but mere foreshadowing of the next;
And was the author, the emperor of recluses, preparing for an;
On a night long since forgotten
When the shimmering strip of our home galaxy
Illuminated faces of silent wonderment
Our place was settled, and the cosmos reached out
And welcomed us as its children
The cosmos never forgets, to a degree that
An elephant would find excessive-
It sits, Indian-style and whispers amongst itself
As though Earth is a grand theater and
The cosmos has not been shushed by a
Do its children remember that night,
Before the calendar informed us that we
Were hurtling forward, when every night was a festival
Of the always-renewed covenant
We, the children borne of stars and time
Gaze up into the mother’s eyes
And see with perfect clarity and see
The unity of the past