Anicca

The death of mayapples isn’t really death. They turn chartreuse, speckled, yellow, fall over, and brown, joining the autumn leaves to become the woodland carpet.

Beneath, where you can’t see, a rhizome holds all the energy captured in the fleeting months of spring.

I came too late hoping for any remaining fruit, as if the box turtles, deer, or squirrels would save me one.

Instead I bear witness to this massive wake. A last glimpse before they retire, giving space for ferns and budding magnolias. I keep walking, through these woods now green, and a pileated woodpecker flies across the trail.