February Evening

I tread lightly, as I am underneath a luscious purple sky on a vivid, frigid evening.

I do not belong here. I am a vagrant: I am the monk wondering aimlessly through the desert. This hermit does not belong there. He has taken a vow of silence. His words do not belong there.

A few of the street lights are broken, extinguished. They do not belong here. The night has returned to its splendor; it is uninterrupted, free, and hidden once again.

The trees are illuminated, their branches all too barren and exposed. The leaves do not belong here. They have had their splendor; for now they have vanished, though more will take their place.

And so it is with me. The streets are empty and devoid of life, but in just a few hours, they'll be thronging with cars and buses and people, haphazardly making their way. And the streets will not belong to me.

I tread lightly, for underneath me is the residue of abandoned civilizations and demolished ecosystems.

I do not belong here. I am a wonderer: as I glance toward the ever distant stars, I remember that I have traveled a path I cannot reverse. I am star stuff, glimpsing at my past, in swirling points of light. But I do not belong there.

For a countless time I walk alone, unnoticed. I do not belong here. The sun rises and the day reigns, the spring arrives and the leaves regenerate, and I am not required.

The past is illuminated, its branches barren and exposed. Its accounts do not belong here. They who walked and wondered and spoke have had their splendor; for now they have vanished, though more will take their place.

And so it is with me. My tongue is still and devoid of speech, but for just a few moments, my words will be thronging in ears and minds and memories, haphazardly making their way. And my words will not belong to me.