Eschaton

It’s the end of October and here,
near the sea, the fig still purples
with fruit; and across the world
the cherry trees are putting forth
blossoms again, after their
season. I’m not sure if this
is what they call the second coming.
Meanwhile the days wind themselves
more rapidly and the spool darkens
with shadow. As a child I used
to take a dog-eared new testament
with me and under the blankets read
about the end of days: how seven
suns collide in scrolls of sulfur
and four horses paw at the edge
of the sky. Whether we eat our fill
from the plate or choose to fast,
jeweled glass rains from every
temple, every orchard. I didn’t
know then how there could be
so much sadness, so much waste.