Let It Fall

bare

Lay them down, let them slip

From bone-white anxious fingertips –

These pseudo-hues, these not-true-yous,

The ways in which you daily choose

To dress your soul in binary,

Faux your skin in finery;

When fiction’s tarnish falls away,

When forgery is let decay,

Your backbone rises plumb-line strong,

Authentic in its truest song.

So let it fall, remove that shell –

You’re beautiful au naturel.

 

 

 

Upon an Autumn Afternoon

smokebush mystery

Summer slowly rusts away in copper-plated sighs;

Flowers nod their heavy heads and curtsy their good-byes.

Wind discovers secret nests, undressing hidden lairs;

Leaves, ashamed, blush scarlet veins, and tiptoe down the stairs.

He Never Saw Her Value

He never saw her value,

the way the sun drew out

the gold in her hair and  her heart,

until it was too late.

Solid,

comforting,

mining worth from the

crumbs he tossed at her feet,

she died to him slowly;

over years of neglect,

the arteries seeking sap

withered and found new source.

He reaches,

but grasps air –

she is falling,

falling,

ore he can no longer touch,

gem he can no longer claim

as his own.

Letting Go

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

broken visions;

 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.

She mourns,

crying crisp leaves,

showers of  decay

to soak her roots.

Her branches, bare finger-prayers,

point to the God beyond the Harvest Moon;

here,

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.

But first,

she must let go.

So today,

she will mourn well.

Letting go

will give her more

than withered hopes.

Her grip slips,

and her fist

embraces air.

She looks up, up, up –

up to where her best soul

floats,

tethered to

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!