Letting Go
I am letting go of layers
Or are they letting go of me
I watch their downward drifting
Rocking back and forth by breeze
Cradled quiet on their journey
A silent lullaby
I hang with each one in the air
Once supple flesh now crackling dry
I choose to watch their falling
My nature aches to be reminded
How very short a season lasts
Born sycamore instead of pine
I was made to shed this skin
Grey rolls of cardboard slipping slight
Leaning with the wind I have a look
At pieces scattered left and right
I shake the weight of newborn branches
Absorb the fading warmth and light
I was not made to endure seasons
While remaining straight and green
From root to tip, where blackbirds grip
The travel of the earth reveals me
-a.r.
Painting: Sycamore By Yvonne Pecorino Mucci
Another relevant repost, letting go is always a lesson for me, embodied in the trees in my front yard as fall approaches.
sometimesihatemycat 