Things measured in seasons:
The bowing of my parents bodies as their lives slip slowly down into the soil.
My heart’s opening as grief recedes, and I savor the presence of a well passed beloved again.
The rise and fall of rivers I visit, my long lost mothers, their bodies swelling loudly then receding to the bare limbed ravines I know and adore so well. I pick through their shores, reading the litany of lives they’ve born, nourished and decayed.
Each Dog I’ve loved, their faces becoming moon blessings as their pace slows.
My children’s lives reaching themselves higher into the treed sky I didn’t think they’d meet so quickly.
The warmth I share with new lovers, that comes and goes and returns, sometimes.
My own hands, once so fat and happy, then strong with horse veins running through them, now to the lean branches they’ll grow into, then again to the burled swollen rememberers of meals made, dirt dug, wood hewn, hands held, caresses painted and poems written.
Seasons change me in ways that I never expect, but are always familiar, and always true.
