Five sages meet in a clearing

They sit in silence, gently,
like a cup filled to the brim
with water.

They speak slowly, carefully,
one at a time,
holding each other’s words
in a world that has forgotten how.

They talk of the nectar one finds
at the edge of the forest,
how mycelium quietly widens
underground,
where a crocus breaks soil
in spring.

They talk of people whose eyes trembled
as they spoke,
who looked on as if at green meadows
near the house they grew up in.

They talked of themselves, shaking
as they walked into unknown cities
where beggars looked on with hungry eyes.

At weddings they spoke of funerals,
offering spring flowers into the hands
of the beloved.

Dark clouds gathered above the clearing,
yet the sages were unmoved.
They talked of the rain soaking
their clothes, their cold limbs
calling for warmth.

They talked of their eyes going down
like the sun,
not knowing when they would meet again.

They sit in silence, bowing
toward each other.
In a season’s time the field
will be overgrown with flowering weeds.