Look out upon the garden,
a wither of tangled vines
unharvested fruits hang cracked and past their time
mist, softer than a lover’s goodbye kiss,
whispers promises and memories.
The windblown leaf
a tiny prayer of thanks
an ode to letting go.
In the dawn, still fog shrouded,
a peaceful moment lulls,
calling to mind
memories of gatherings and grace.
Time and tide,
channeled where once they meandered,
sing the algorithm for this age,
our age of bitter ironies
and dreams come true.
Singing into being a time of reaping,
no joyful thanksgiving this season.
Looking out on all we’ve wrought,
only the sinking, leaden knowledge;
that the savaged garden beyond was ours.
Oh, the terrible unfolding as the flowers of our folly bloom