Family gathers around tables in front of the farmhouse.
After a year of sheltering, 
retreating from contagious threats,
A world reopens to fill the vacancy of time lost.

At the center of the yard, 
a mighty pin oak weeps from a severed branch,
secretions stain the trunk, 
spilling over its own roots, 
lost in the dirt.
I place too much importance on what I feel.
 
The fields are overgrown, 
waving in shallow winds,
voluntary trees sprout up from the ocean of wild grass.
Low hanging limbs reach down, 
swaying just above drifting seedheads.
Some liminal space hides in between the touching forestry.
I place too much importance on what I feel.

Missing family members who departed long ago or recently,
to travel upon those talking winds, 
carried over these fields at the end of day.
Their presence is remembered, 
felt missing, I am reminded of their absence.
The trees mourn in unspoken throws, 
the wind widens the vacancy with invisible fingers.
I place too much importance on what I feel.

Perhaps all of this is merely time passing, 
an awareness that everything is falling away.
Significance doesn't exist beyond the contemplations of my heart,
there is no real resonance in nature, 
no imprinted mysteries, 
or ancestors whispering in the woods.

Just the sorrows of gradually fading, 
surrendering to closing circles,
with bowed heads, 
silent in the essence of our surroundings,
and me placing importance on what I feel.