a distant spring

touching the newborn skin of autumn
my fingertips cold and electric
the air here is wet and heavy
an infusion sinking deep into my body
like a vital tincture
ridding me of the remnant dying cells of summer
an opera of scent
dark and good and lucious
fills up every last bit of space
that can be occupied
inside of my senses
I wont say ‘when’
even as it brims over
and floods the center of my emotions
present moment awareness
I am here in the choas
of the innumerable chosen ones of decay
naturally obedient
to the laws of letting go.
I wonder what is done…
What is finished inside of me?
And what miracles will come
from shedding this mass accumulation of death?
so often I’ve held onto it
afraid to just be bare for a season.
“what is there to replace you?”
perhaps there is no greater faith
then that which autumnal trees possess
as they willingly let go their leaves
becoming empty, naked, colourless
patiently awaiting the warmth
the bud
the readornment
that exists only as a quiet promise
from a distant spring.

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