history is a word we use
to describe
an accumulation of moments
each one a mote
drawn out of time
separate and yet part of the whole
one leaf that grows and leans
into the light
and then falls and gyres down upon the green
time is a word we use to describe
the order and flow
of moments
to differentiate between the leaf that grows
and the leaf that stretches
and the leaf that flares into color
before fluttering to the green
arbitrary words, time and history
we use them to denote
to scribe an arch of progression
but really, they do not care
the moments
the leafs
they do not care what definitions we assign
they are just motes, just leafs
perched in the tree, fallen to the green
perhaps raked and piled
sorted into bags
for collection
without our imposition
of order
would they not still remain
stretched on the green?
blown across the waters?
and still
we are these moments
the sum of leafs raked into piles
verdant, flaming, stretching and conjoined
piles of the detritus of life
mulled together in an attempt
to define ourselves
moments that have been pregnant
and grown
and fallen
is a leafy mound of gold and umber
more beautiful
than any one
that remains, still verdant
upon the tree?
a perfect present moment
yet leaning
into the light?
