November 2022

What sound, a tree falling alone
in a forest, no plea for its soul,
nor remembered by the shadows cast,
by rustle of greens, by feathered song?

What sound, the kettle boiling for one,
whose tea cup, chipped, holds an used teabag
its flavors remembered by heart,
by the long strolls, in two, through a forest as dawn?

What touch under fingers holding alone
a chipped cup, the memory of one,
last left behind – in a world where a tree
fell in silence, missed by none?