Untitled, Beth Rolingson

As the dark solstice nears,
the wheel is turning
inward,
toward sleep.
And death.

The old ones are departing
(another Arthur, another Guinevere)
like withered leaves
letting go of the tree,
like birds taking flight.

We can’t see, we don't know
the mystery
gathering force within the roots
preparing to push the leaves
outward,
into the light.

The birds soar
toward the strengthening sun.

 

Art by Tom Besson, http://www.tombesson.com/