The jacarandas are in flower
as the blossoms fall purple,
small deaths, sighing at
the side of open suitcases,
coming to rest in the dust of
gathering memories, waiting
to be packed along with the
myriad possessions; dregs
of life and tree, scattered in
that song of inevitable ending,
where what was, can be no
more and what is, calls, in
soulful whisper, reminding
all is impermanent, nothing
lasts, or can endure, beyond
its allotted time and for the
expatriate, there will always
be a moment to go home, just
as the tree sheds its beauty,
making way for something
new, and for that which is
destined to come after -
fated to the turn of the wheel
of life, the eternal cycle,
slowly spinning in silence,
unseen, revolutions of days
and minutes, dropping into
the past, as the now rises
in gentle roll, to the top of
consciousness, holding for
a brief reality, impressed
as template of our being;
so we begin and move to
our created end, which
has always been written
even if we did not know it.
