Weep not, as those who have no hope

Do we weep for the leaf in November, crinkled and brown,
or the pomegranate hull as it lies by the fence near the road?
Do we sigh and remember the tomato garden gone to dry stalks
and a few desiccated limp fibers revealing some seeds?

All things perish, even galaxies across eons of time swirl and fall into darkness;
great empires along with their leaders and slaves go down into graves;
into history, and into memory, too, which lingers, a mist slowly ebbing
away in the new sunlight of other creations.

She is not here and not there either,
in that heaven or hell we once, as children, believed in.
The library of her life is closed, has burned down
with all its books, all its architectural drawings,
and all the music and movies that made us cry.

I am not a prophet or seer, although I’ve begged God to speak
to me in the night. But I do take all lessons to heart, twisting
and weaving them into stories and songs that whisper some truths.
Everything changes, reforms, lies down in the dirt and is reborn.