—(Ace of Wands, reversed, Rider-Waite)
Even in spring, leaves fall without
being symbols of death or decay.
As I began to write today,
my pen ran out of ink.
I found another, and began again.
I have floated mostly on a slow river
meandering through a tended forest.
This acceptance is a form of agency,
like being a teacher or a suicide.
I determine the shapes of the clouds.
On a hill in the distance sits a castle.
From here, it’s hard to tell if it’s in ruins.
I don’t know what I’m going to do,
other than not what I have been.
Happiness doesn’t come with clarity.
(July 18, 2023)
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