It could be that we, the silently weeping, are gently
vibrating with near-perfect death
from the watered soil of completions,
which rise and then wilt to murky bliss,
as willows wave them to sleep again.
No-time dreams another cycle
underneath a field of lavender,
the one surrounded by pine.
A spiraling sound carries on through the cells of knowing.
Jubilation brings weariness to the spanning trees.