Morning Winds

I turn to the mirror 
that is no longer there
seeking an answer
to the invisible question. 

The wind blows
changes across time,
neutral within the moment 
as a butterfly’s flight. 

The pines stand black
against a grey-white sky. 
They, too, are temporary 
and will rot or burn,

but their boughs dance
and sway
in the passing wind. 
Now.