You sit with your back against a birch tree.
The tree has come to a place of mind
to release its leaves, all of them.
You are hanging on to something.
Firefly larvae burrow underground,
carrying their light off into the darkness.
Frogs have given up their breath,
awfully complacent in the deepening mud.
They know what to keep, what to give away.
Clouds have laid themselves out on the ground,
all their belongings set to the curb, without grief.
Like the maples we flourish toward our graves.
Mother bears will lumber down into their dens,
wrap their arms around a death of sleep,
ready for birthing.
The ferns have put their copper coins
into the temple box, all they had.
The milkweed have opened their purses,
throwing their savings to the wind,
holding back nothing.
The geese and herons give up their place,
the grasses have taken account
and now reduce themselves to their roots.
A little feathered seed floats by.
Those fleeing Egypt, what did they take,
what did they leave? How did they know?
Mendicants with their begging bowls,
what have they left out of their little bags?
Leaning against the prodigal birch
you listen for what you might shed,
and what can’t be taken from you,
and what will be held for you for another time.
The brook, autumnal trickle,
small in its channel, gives itself to the sea,
awaiting snow.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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