Number Sixty Eight

Trees rise into the darkness, branches disappearing into night.  What was apparent by day now becomes hidden.  What we knew in the light is lost.

And this loss is the source of fear, where we begin to feel alone.  So to live this long night, the lightless time from birth to death, we rut paths for the blind.  Often they lead to cliffs, to last shouts before the fall.

The trees rise into darkness.  The purpose we arrived with, so clear in the moment before we came, is without illumination. The way now is not forward, but to be still.  To listen.  Without light there is only the sound of breath.  Of the heart.