Over the dark summer soil,
what color are the leaves
fluttering in emptiness,
an uplifting breeze,
which turns
them into new
altitudes,
like an airplane’s ascent,
which contains its descent.
Always confronting the world that is
and the world that isn’t,
it takes time and space
and the analogy between them,
but one starts to know one
behind many, the pilot eternally
locked away in the breeze’s scent.
From the shrouded clarity of a peak
comes an offering of kindness:
there is no end.
There is the warmth of friendship
in the earthworms’ steam,
there is the music of things
turning into things.