7DBBDC7E-0A15-43D3-960D-2C46B1C840E5It has started. On my knees in the dirt I have to pull them away to uncover the soil; brown, yellow, crisping, like old paper.

In the evening the air cools and the half-made moon wears a gauze cloak, her radiance seeping into the velvet around her.

I am living with ghosts. Old friends. Old friendships. I am haunted by the reality of a past present. I can remember  how that felt, the shared experiences, conversations. The triumphs, the survivals. I flick through the memory-album and it feels real.

There are a whole host of these people, once close, now distant, in time or space. I carry them with me, because they have held a special place. But it gets cluttered in my heart-space, crowded. I make futile attempts to reconnect. There is silence, a static crackle at the end of the line. They have moved on. New homes, new careers, new relationships, new lives.

I have too. The world turns and in a heartbeat something entirely other arrives.

The trees teach me how easy it is, when the breeze blows just so, to let go. There is a beauty and grace in shedding the old. A freedom too. Because in holding on I keep a version of myself who no longer exists. A way for them to know me. But she has gone, and I need to let that be. Or I cannot move; rooted to a spot, looking backwards, straining forward, burdened by old loves and likes, tired attitudes and thinking.

I open my hand, and watch the leaves fall. Shake my branches and dance in the breeze. You can see the shape of my soul etched against the sky.

One thought on “Leaves

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