The Tree is Beautiful and I am Privileged

by C.R. McCormmach

The sun shines briefly through clouds

after many days of rain steady

a tree glows orange and yellow

the only one remaining with leaves.

I am transfixed by it,

held in a strange grief as

my mind empties into breath

my body into turbulence.

I notice the sodden oak leaves

and water running in the gutter.

I notice the dogs are ready to move on.

Still, I am held in the vision

and the sadness blossoms.

I am neither the one noticing,

nor the one gripped

I am infinite, outside time,

engulfed by a perception,

not grasping for meaning even.

And yet moments arise and pass

it is chill and my feet are becoming wet,

the dogs tug, the sound of a car passing.

Somewhere I am struggling

and somewhere I do not care in the least

that the tree is beautiful and I am privileged.

Existence matters, being, that is.

I am not sure if knowing this matters.

My chest cracks open

and a strange light springs to the tree

to shimmer at the tips of the branches.