It is easy,

It is easy,

Without reference

To anything but the arc

Of sky to sea

The moon full

Big and fat

A yellow eye,

To the west of Katmandu,

Or at least

Low enough in the sky

For me to reach up and take a bite,

To imagine a younger self,

Full of hope

A hop, skip and jump

Away from the birth of death.

Poppies dripping with fresh blood

Blaze across the valley

Embraced in paradox.

Trees, ancient reminders

Of slippage

Leaves, bound together

In a verdant display

Of the mutuality of existence

Until the falling,

When just for a moment

Before the withering,

They are free

To be alone.

With nothing to prevent

The inevitability of decline

Temptation steps ahead

Of the desire

To be earthbound.

As the years pass

Walking alone in a meadow

Among wildflowers

On a clear bright night

With the song of a Nightingale

Is forever

A time of mystery.

And a lazy river

Heavy with lost souls

In need of a home

Brings me closer

Both

To the beginning

And to the end.