An early-morning walk, with the full moon setting behind the firs, the tops of which are obscured by a rapidly accumulating fog. The grass is heavy with dew. And now fog is forming in the street.
The beauty of this world, as I love, know, and understand it, would not be possible without the ongoing, ever-renewing cycle of birth, death, and decay. Why, then, would I think of my own death as some kind of tragedy? It is not. It too is a natural and necessary part of the same cycle. And so in a very direct and real sense, if I fear death, I fear beauty. And what I fear, I do not clearly see.
October 2, 2020
[ 888 ]
Categories: New Poems & Pieces