Midwinter. The sun red on the brink of the trees far side

Of the valley. We sit, she and I, in the frozen wide-eyed

Silence, watch the living come-and-go of our breath.

Nothing permanent. Nothing can last except… now. A gull glides

From mist into clear sky – and back into mist:

A thought torn apart, bled out of mind. Then length and breadth

Melt back into emptiness. Each life is the thought of death,

A thought in passing. See it come, watch it go, says the guide.

You let it go. Let it go. Allow the thought to rest

On emptiness. On the silence. The valley is silent. In shadow beneath

The ...


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