Transit

Everything is on the brink

hesitation, soft horn

the fog is hanging on

Morning tea at the cafe

plum blossoms on the street corner

watching for the light to change

petals drift to pavement

Her voice answers the phone

but it is out of time

I've left two messages

What is the distance between being and non?

The blossoms are predictable

though I never know when they will appear

I call them cherry and plum interchangeably

the small notch of difference, unimportant

Our brain cells are alive for some time

after our heart stops and breathing ceases

When are we really gone?

when the voicemail message has been changed

when we are deleted from the contacts list

when photos are faded beyond recognition

when we are in no one’s living memory

when humans are extinct

When the sun finally implodes, will the stuff of us still be?

Alive, dying, dead

only one’s a steady state

or maybe not

I treat the first as if it is

as if my friends will be the same whenever I drop in

Even aging isn’t evident

We just pick up where we left off

What do I say to a dying friend?

“I love you, call you next week”

We are conscious blossoms

petals of one season

One moment we shimmer

then pink dot on the sidewalk