In the Flux of Eternity

In the Flux of Eternity

She rests—

in the patient hush of autumn light,

her body a fragile flower

cupped in the gentle palm of passing time.

There is no trembling

at the thought of dusk,

no shadow curling

at the edge of her gaze.

She is not afraid.

Her eyes, lucid as morning rain,

trace the world’s slow turning—

the quiet flutter of curtain,

the pulse of each inhale,

the faint, loving murmur

of a city waking beyond the window.

She does not wrestle

with the old, unanswerable questions.

No frantic search

for anchors in the void,

no pleading with the stars.

There is grace

in her acceptance.

I watch her—

a luminous presence,

roots loosening from soil,

already half-belonging

to the flux of eternity—

that endless current

where beginnings and endings

fold into each other

like the blue and golden air of October.

She is alive

in this fleeting season,

a delicate bloom

untroubled by the certainty

of petals falling.

Her spirit opened

to the vast quiet,

her release a return

to all that ever was—

and all that will be.