Seasons, by Jill Davis

In a brief span of time

the seasons change, and

I walk into the middle of

October.

I love the smell of a

fall morning,

the wet, thick air

against my face.

I gaze at my Mulberry tree.

Its red and orange leaves

pretend to have no trouble

letting go.

I wish I could let go.

I brush the fog from my eyes

and turn off

the world.

This is my special space,

where anything can happen

and usually does.

Like having sweet memories of

things that never took place

I escape deep within

and move through the shadows

of my inner world.

My wound is like

a blister on my soul,

and complete

healing

never occurs

.

I mourn the loss of my mother here.

I reach through

time and space

and reshape the truth until it feels

comfortable.

Inside this moment,

I inhale her memory

and brace myself.

I am exquisitely alive here.

So is she

--Jill Davis

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