a son called off to war.

a car parked until his return.

a seed, carried by the wind.

time has no agenda.

it moves forward, one tick,

one second, one minute.

the son doesn't return.

the tree grows.

the car falls to the

ground one flake at a time.

the car waited,

the tree rose, altering and shifting, appearing

to climb as though the

metal was part of its plan.

limbs spread where passengers sat while the canopy stretches to

the sky, seeking for the returning boy.

the home place stands on crumbling foundation

while the walls lean and shift from years of loneliness.

the crops are gone and the weeds block any sign that life ever existed as life moves on.

we're born with a purpose.

we live and impact the spaces that we cross only to fade into the world, forgotten with time.