the fathers of the forest turn a new chapter,
all silent like ripples of breath upon a lake.
under the gaze of a waning solar mistress
they rotate their pigments and shed their costumes,
revealing decades of patient listening.
the stars tango in unison to the left,
holding hands and spinning so quick they appear
motionless
to the eye of the beholder.
I stand in awe of the illusion of stability
as I hurtle through the milkyway on a melting rock.
the sheer impossibility of unveiling meaning
at the ephemeral core of this reality
stings at my stomach like one thousand hornets drunk on whiskey.
and as my laugh echoes orchestral through the meadow,
I discover the secret of everything.