(The Poem of Our Lives)

If we were to walk
down a deserted road
in autumn, I would not
point out the foliage,
nor mention the clouds
or how the breeze
meanders along.

Instead, I would find
a felled tree and count
the concentric rings
encompassing the stump;
remarking on how
a year’s growth had been
by the width of the band.

Then I would look up
and ask: why don’t we
recycle the paper we use
to draft the poems
of our lives?
or burn all of our money
and move to Tibet?

After this thinking
had exhausted us,
we would lay down
and not speak.
Imagine how the other

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