Potholes - 1

The leaves have left, and even the trees are gone,
the cranking of the heavy machines go on and on.
Dry and dusty sidewalks, and smelly drains,
reminds me of the horror of drought and rains.

The pot-holes in the road remind me of times gone by,
when colors were transient like a phantom flare,
when horizon was the only reality, neither land nor sky,
when I slowed great movements by virtue of not being there.

Yes, what is hole, but that which exists not?
Just as a whole is that which exists in all.
As trees wither, and flesh and minds rot,
the divide disappears,  between the rise and fall.

What is ascent, if not descent in reverse?
What is acceptance, if not decension in inverse?
What is nothingness, if not the converse,
of all that is, and all shall be the universe.


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