The Oblivion is Ours

These are the rhythmic shadows unleashed in winter.
Their restlessness in the light
Betrays the quiescence of these snow-steeped woods.

The trees stand watchful.
Sentinels, holding themselves still as they wait,
They are rooted fast in faith
That soon they will cross the thresholds of sleep.

That the chanting of their leaves
Will again be embraced by the wind’s desire
To share its stories of ceaseless wandering.
To speak of the stars floating on the seas
When the sun retreats into the night.
To marvel at the sun’s return
And the irrepressible upwelling of life.

We are the phantoms here.
We pass unnoticed as we walk.
The oblivion is ours to remediate,
And in mere images and words
To illuminate the plenitude
In shadows and light.