This winter I saw death as if I once had married her and knew it wasn't true.
The ones we think have died are figments of a ripe imagination as is the one who thinks it has survived.
Above the birch and cedar is the fact of open sky.
Like consciousness, its winds are ever-changing, and like pure awareness, it's unmoved
by even whirlwinds that have reached the size of Category 5 named hurricanes.
There comes a time when time itself will end, but that in which the space of time has risen,
like thought-sized bubbles in a pencil-drawn cartoon, is as the page that always is, beyond all acts of such erasing.
And moreover, I never turn.