Slow Decay

How quietly the world unravels,

the apple softening in its bowl,

the fern turning to lace

along the forest floor.

Nothing resists.

The mushroom lifts its pale mouth

to the dark,

the leaves surrender their green

without complaint.

I bend to touch a fallen pear,

its skin mottled, fragrant,

alive with wasps and sweetness.

It is not death I smell,

but ripeness passing through

its final gate.

If I am lucky,

I too will go this way,

slowly,

gently,

shedding brightness for something

truer, quieter.

All around me,

the earth is practicing

how to let go.

I am trying

to learn.