Psithurisma

There is the continuous whisper in psithurisma,
The shuffling of atmosphere through empty forests,
Winding the unheard sounds of the dead and gone,
Across The Steppes, up through the lost lands,
And into the endless, treeless deserts of ice,
Where all the mix of souls find ghostless peace,

Remember on days of no weather, the trees calling,
Like screwed-up, torn-out pages, dead biography,
Bent by time and elements to fragments of talk,
Long forgotten by humans but saved in air,
Until brought back and decoded by the movement,
Of cyclones, anti-cyclones, turning the words again,

Until they leave you with no more than a guess,
As to what the argument was actually about,
Or how it was resolved in making up that day,
It's all just history, everything that ever happened,
Running headlong to the absolute end of entropy,
Where the universe is nothing more than this,

And how this sky-seen manifests is moot in black,
Its mechanism all bright thought and nothing else,
No thing of mindfulness to see or hear its end,
A scrap of hydrogen and what goes for white noise,
In it, where the storms abate to long-lasting eons,
With nothing but cooling and all time imprisoned,

We are watching for the last moving particle of light,
And finding it, watch it slow and end this murmur,
All things and time ending in this quadrillionth second,

But Time still passes .....

Time still passes ....

And now the hiss of ideas has coalesced, repeating,
The whole, evolving, eternal show reconstructing,
From a whisper through a tree.