An apple anticipates an afterlife - an ear to the earth XIV

We cannot account for our arrival Such mysteries lie buried in Between the lines drawn out In the fields arable acreage. Resting in stillness, Warm repose, warming to touch Our sensitive hearts. Our vital instinct Is strong, it means our survival, Yet when we asked we were simply told It is just so. And so it is. There is, however, something we all share Of that we are aware, at least. We have seen the seasons turn We have seen the foliage unfurl, Unravel and return. We have felt the sway and the pull That touches us all. We have felt the swelling That bends the bower with our weight, Feeling out on a limb we wait and wait Growing evermore desirable. What is it we feed upon to make us thus? And when the furs and feathers feast on us Is it then that we loose ourselves to oblivion? Of the one that is me, I yield. I yield forsaking my others. I yield to the ache that comes with age Assuaged only in a moment of weightlessness. For this, I yield. The grasses are waving. The horizon is approaching. All is as it should be. For the one that is me Departure marks a new beginning. . poem XIV taken from the collection An ear to the earth