She treasures memories

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?