Bright Ones, Dull Ones
So many colors
In the garden, in fall
More even than spring,
I think
Fall is heaven, the harvest
Is death, death is heaven
Followed by winter, the cold,
The white
White will blanket
But before the blanket,
The dance,
The Fall,
The explosion
Of yellow, orange, red, pink
The flames,
The blazing sunset
Dramatic, glorious
Tempered
By the quiet, steady evergreens
Who do not mind
Are not disturbed
They live on, patient,
Not judging the others
For their histrionics,
Their clamor;
And the bright ones
Do not scorn the evergreens,
Do not think themselves
Superior for their brightness,
Their color—
They do not find the pines dull.
And what, what, what am I?
A bright one, a changer?
A maple, burning red
Stripped bare
Budding green
Burning red again?
Or a pine, evergreen?
Ever green?
It’s all eternal anyways
It’s all ephemeral, too
It’s all One, and it’s all Infinite,
And it’s all finite.
What am I, I, I?
A gardener, spreading mulch.
—Matthew Eighmy
