Ode to Seasons (Part 4)

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

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