This is the moment when you see again
the red berries of the mountain ash
and in the dark sky
the birdsâ night migrations.
It grieves me to think
the dead wonât see themâ
these things we depend on,
they disappear.
What will the soul do for solace then?
I tell myself maybe it wonât need
these pleasures anymore;
maybe just not being is simply enough,
hard as that is to imagine.