It is constant
It is a practice
How many times a day do I need to stop and refocus my mind?
Sometimes I can lose count
Sometimes the count is moot
But that doesn’t mean I am anything other than good
It is a constant practice
a love I cannot shake
But would you want to shrug as hard as you could
to slough off what it means to be
you every minute?
I keep still, I keep the weight
so when I notice its absence
it’s something I can taste
(Photo cred to Cooper D.)
Your love is the size
of a pill – oblong, chalky;
No water in sight.
How self conscious trees must feel
when they lose all their leaves in winter
stripped bare of green, of bulk,
We can only hope the snows
will come often and linger,
dusting the boughs with glistening powder,
a quiet white that lets you stare
Or perhaps they have lived long enough
to lean into the seasons.
I am young and still learning change
is constant and perfect in its way.
I am still learning not to fight.
Yet the question remains:
who, or what, will cover me
when I lose all my leaves?