It 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.