For a passing time,
they were rushing to their deaths
with the passion of martyrs,
holding a long kept secret,
they take to their graves.
Now with the branches against a bright blue canopy
the light against the dark,
offering up the contrasting rareness of Winter’s hold.
Only a few,
a very few remain,
left to greet the still.
But one by one,
they will descend,
in sloping rounds,
an ancient call they must rend.
Drifting this way and that
in a purposeful retreat,
seeking space upon the forest floor.
Passing each day now,
harboring the mounting chill,
and the promises of Winter kept.
The mood of the forest descends,
slipping into melancholia,
and finally into sleep,
sadness the sleep of ancient ritual.
Caught in time,
this death and rebirth honored
by nature’s so long held traditions.
Waiting,
for the warm sweet breath of Spring,
the reward for Winter’s faithfulness.
The essence of the vigil kept,
alive in soldier like tree solidarity,
will be born-out in Spring.
These sentinels of the forest,
sleeping now,
will soon reborn in Spring.
The celebration of life begins anew,
until again the rushing begins.
Bhante n. Kassapa
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