Anicca

The death of mayapples isn’t really death. They turn chartreuse, speckled, yellow, fall over, and brown, like the autumn leaves, becoming 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.