Fallen tree

Mossy limbs

like ribs exposed to time

show that we do not end

but become a template for more life to grow upon.

The products of one life

decay in plain sight,

like stories retold in new voice

or art repurposed with irony

or buildings dismantled for parts

or ideas inverted for clout.

What is the purpose of our work

if never permanence?

To bring truth into form,

however fleeting…

To align with something greater

that ripples through the fractals of being…

To be a human doing

what we are here to experience.