She looks down, down, down –
down to where the happily never afters
drop like curdled dreams onto the
brittle bones of yesterday’s yearnings.
She’s tired –
so, so tired of juggling dying hopes and
today, she’s letting go.
She watches each relic twirl its death spiral,
find finicky autumn breath
and sink beneath the weight of regret.
The seeing triggers tears.
crying crisp leaves,
showers of decay
to soak her roots.
Her branches, bare finger-prayers,
point to the God beyond the Harvest Moon;
in her loss,
the letting go will be redeemed.
The broken stems will one day
feel fresh sap stir.
Her new dreams will be born fully alive –
newly-minted green hatchlings,
a verdant and magnificent cloak
to shade parched soul.
she must let go.
she will mourn well.
will give her more
than withered hopes.
Her grip slips,
and her fist
She looks up, up, up –
up to where her best soul
the God beyond
the Harvest Moon.
Six months ago today I posted my first poem. This wasn’t designed as a poetry blog – but has morphed into one on its own terms. Here’s to letting go of old expectations, in order to embrace new ones!