“Mortality”

Under the patient clock’s unblinking face,  
We pace our seasons, fragile in their turn—  
The spring’s raw promise, autumn’s smoky grace,  
Those fleeting embers for which all hearts yearn.

Mortality, a hush between the notes  
Of every song we sing and yearn to hold;  
It shadows laughter as it softly floats,  
Some gentle warning whispered, grave and old.

We’re leaves inscribed with stories, brief and bright,  
A trembling edge of green against the blue,  
Then gold, then gone—diminishing to light,  
Yet feeding roots that rise and live anew.

In knowing there’s an end, we find a start—  
To treasure now, to love with urgent art.

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