Dawn chorus, subdued and sparse,
The birds of summer have flown.
Washed-out blue, an autumn sky,
Autumn life, drifting darkward.
Pale gold late October sun.
A soft light. Not a warm one.
Each born thing comes to fruition,
Welcome or not, still it matures.
That which has been sown will be reaped.
And yet, what was lost may be found.
While the world lives cyclically
Man is not so bound. He can change.
No predetermined unchanged crop
No inescapable karma.
That gentle light both soft and warm
That once he had in golden past
Can be recovered. If he wills.
Can be found. And not lost again.
The rest towards which he travels,
The long dark night, his soul’s winter,
Need not be endless, empty, cold
A restless rest of deep regret.
Though now the journey is far sped
The destination is unclear.
A washed-out blue fades to black
The clouds that conceal the stars
Are yours, the stars not your stars
They will be unveiled when, if,
You unveil them. Should you wish
Then stars, not yours, will be yours.
And yet will remain themselves