qarrtsiluni

Form is illusion.
Ask any monk. Ask any moth.

Ask anybody who’s lost
what they thought defined them.

Form is built
from the outside in.

Lose your legs.
You are not your legs.

Lose your job.
You are not your job.

Lose your love.

Take fire,
for instance.

Take all that carbon
and snap those bonds.

Freed of form,
it turns pure energy. Heat.

Turns an oak into a torch,
into a column of smoke;

after all that wood, all those leaves,
all that living, you’d be hard-pressed

to tell its ashes
from the squirrel’s.

by Caitlin Gildrien

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