in green leaves,
memories of sunrise
and sunset…
and small nests
caught within her uplifted hands.
Her hands wrinkle
and turn brown each season
as she lifts them
up for wandering breezes
to flip through
before they gently take them
from her grasp.
She watches the edges
of her memories curl
like old photos
then fade
’til they are nothing more
than ashes
under
angry old men’s feet
who dread the change of seasons
and
complain about the work
she causes.
And yet,
she does not resist
but releases this season
which…
like tides
returns each year
to drag her small brown seashells
out to windy places
she cannot follow.
But does it really matter what happens
in fall?
For…
small robin eggs
and bird songs
are not really something
she can grasp forever
and if she did
how could she open her hands
to hold young nests
next spring
when she grows
anew?
“She watches the edges of her memories curl like old photos”. Oh my Ms Bouquet, this is a tremendous piece. I need to sit down. Waving!
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:)..such an encourager you are!.. thanks
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Comes naturally when the writing is exceptional! 😀
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🙂
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Beautiful. Consciously, or not, you have written a brilliantly evocative poem about the Mother Goddess. Kudos and all credit to you. ❤
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