The Uncertainty of Seasons

One last wind. One last gust of wind
and the last of the leaves blow to the ground.

Some gather near the base of the tree,
a death shroud draped over roots.

Others dance in the wind, minglers
with the leaves from a thousand other sisters

while the tree stands like a skeleton,
in imitation of the dead.

You remember the feeling. Dead outside.
no sap in your veins. Bones of yourself and little more,

sure somehow there was life down there
in the roots, but unsure of the season,

unsure of the timing
that begins the cycle of life again.

About this poem

Thinking of the past, times I felt so broken I could not imagine a way back, and yet sure somehow, that there was one.

There is.

Tom