I still see the evidence of my passing,
nine days gone now.
But we are ephemeral as hoar frost on the trees at false dawn.
And there is no permanence —
just this splitting and reforming.
I want to demand an understanding,
but in these depths of winter,
moments of truth or beauty are fleeting.
We try to catch on and hold them,
but they melt in the rising sun and let us go.
Three woodpeckers —
all the robins flocked in the hollow.
Things that are always and never the same.
We can barely comprehend it,
how we move in this place —
our scale so skewed —
where all is a fraction of a fraction.
Our small constancies.
The nothingness of it all
when we see the hoar frost.