missing nothing 

It’s hard to say which is the landscape
of loss, the autumn, when everything 
is fading and falling, withered 
yet striking golden poses while hurrying 
to burn through the moments left, 
or the winter, 
after. 

The near-silent winter, 
solemnly ticking moments away, 
insistent and slow. Even in winter, 
there is breath. You can see it so clearly 
in the hushed air. You can see the tunnels 
of living things in the snow, 
the wing traces of soundless birds, 
ministering angels who've also seen the living things, 
tunnelling, their still warm bodies snatched 
and uplifted to icy stars.

And under the tunnels, the mycelium threading 
back and forth, holding it all together 
through the loneliest December, transforming 
slowly, insistently, what falls back to earth 
into water and wine and golden trees 
pulsing with fire and memory, 

one tribal branching fungus 
jostling shapes of spaces where 
what we’ve lost sinks and settles, and we burn 
through the moments left, missing nothing.

© MMWms 2020

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Landing Page for write 31 days – dreamscape