Again, I encourage you to read Parts 1, 2, and 3 of this series if you have not already. It may be even helpful to refresh your memory. This is the final “season” of this poem.
It is the trees and birds that deliver the news
The day is changing say the falling leaves
Cold sharp metal stabs all around me
Severing my roots
I don’t understand
I like it here
A red ceramic pot catches the dirt falling off my broken roots
I’m pushed into the middle of this pot
Dirt is pushed in around me
I’m taken inside, the air is choking
I reach from my pot desperately for the sunny window
My body once straight is lopsided to leaf in some of the rays
I’m meant to be in the garden, I wither and wilt
Wither and wilt
It is only after I see the merciless white coffin
Cover the grass and garden
That I feel rescued and understand
I’m being protected
For a season
Heard It with My Eyes 