Evening. An old man
sitting in the shade by the Great Gate
reflecting on the Tree of Life.
His wife is dead. These dogs?
He hardly knows them. Though he knew
their great-great- (great-great-?) grandsire,
remembers him even as a pup.
And those two standing there?
That’s not his daughter. (His daughter, too,
is dead.) That’s his granddaughter.
And his great grandson.
The Tree of Life. The ten
Sefiroth. What goes up
must come down, they say.
And so it must. But more importantly,
what comes down must one day go
back up. One day soon.
© James Munro