Trees. Luminous in the forest. As the dying begins.
Letting go. Piece by piece. Leaf by leaf.
Orange. Yellow. Red.
Beautiful. And certain.
Seasons change.
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Trees. Luminous in the forest. As the dying begins.
Letting go. Piece by piece. Leaf by leaf.
Orange. Yellow. Red.
Beautiful. And certain.
Seasons change.
A dense fog settled over me for several years. Like the fog slowing urban streets where we lived during part of that time.
Nearing 50, I joked about brain overload. How pieces of my mind were escaping. Slipping away.
But this was disorienting.
The thick fog outside our urban apartment hid the sun. Birds stopped singing.
I struggled to sing too. During the season I was menopaused.
Dawn. And I’m walking on a path interrupted by roots. Stumbling on acorns hidden beneath fallen leaves.
The way feels uneven.
Unpredictable.
I can’t look up. In the grey. Before full light reveals.