"I speak with gravity."

"To your left, the word gravid:the weight of new life. To your right, the word grave:place for putting a bodyonce it's become only weight. Between them:existence,ambush of amazement,you. I pause. I look out my window.The big-leafed mapletoday looks back undecided.Some leaves wither brown, some keep green. For a tree, gravity is simple.A branch growing upward is neitherhope nor resistance.A branch growing downward is not surrender.One shape just becomes another."

"To find light, if it must, the whole trunk will twist. A tree doesn't grieve that gravitywill soon enough sweep it all in.Before into after, existence's only offer. And yet, about time, gravity, you are silent.With your one, unchanging thought, what could you say?A musical note never changing goes unheard. My friend who is dying, still in you. I, still in you. Two leaves almost weightless"

Gravid and grave contrast new life and burial, framing existence between those states. A maple with mixed leaves reflects simultaneous growth and decay. The tree demonstrates how branches grow upward or downward without moral judgment, adapting shape as the trunk twists to find light. Gravity functions as a constant force that converts before into after, indifferent and silent like an unchanging musical note. Presence and loss coexist under gravity's pull: a dying friend and the observer remain within that same field, rendered as two almost weightless leaves balancing on the edge of being.

Read at The New Yorker