Ash

They strengthen you, the things that fall away,
those things you thought were lifelong, and are not:
though leaves are lost to autumnal decay,
the tree will grow its next concentric spot
and sprout replacements, losing them in turn.
So life is but a course through all you've known,
and--if unplotted--still a thing to learn
is simplified by every loss it's sown,
by every stalk that tumbles to the ground.
The things are not the point, the people not the guides
to sustenance of what relief you've found;
surroundings do not hide the one who hides.
The things that fall away into the night,
and into ash, unblock our clouded sight.