Another Poem

Just about winter.
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The wintry fog is upon us
The chill air to pierce through skin and bone,
And transfer unto us a little of its deference
A mist that whispers of deep dissent
that fall should be gone so quickly that
we must now face the cold again

The leaves all hang in carfeful balance,
But they float down, steadily, to reach the ground
Robbed, bereft of their preferred stations
and left to mourn the loss of oblation,
So far gone and so far fallen,
From higher ascents,
Of which they were begotten

And mankind too, walks upon a plain
Not quite the one he first embarked upon
But travels ownward in sight of that light
which once was seen, but now left forgotten
Like the fog of a dream once known
But now left unrealized by "awakening"
Yet still, steadily stumbling towards that field of origin
Man, unaware of how far fallen, but seeing the mountain
Of great ascent
Rises above himself constantly, though never reaching,
Remembers the world as it used to be,
Slowly,
Step by step,
Remembering and rediscovering
That life which is life and that light which is light
That truth which is truth
That which breathes and animates and perpetuates
Existence from the night.

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