Scarlett Sounding

Scarlett Sounding

Seasonal rounds

were once so predictable

comforting passages

lighting dark days.

 I took them 

all for granted.

 Now that

they no longer 

mark four turnings,

I am set adrift

in a boat without oars.

 Swamp maples

torched the yard

in September.

 Flaming Fire

 on the mountain

celebrated my 

birth -day when

family forgot.

Now the month

has forgotten too.

 Permanent separation.

It took me years

to accept.

After the pain

settled, knife

wounds 

blunted by blood

and time,

 turned me inside out.

Yet the maples remembered

And I was grateful

to be witnessed

by such a celebration.

In these last years

Maple coats have dimmed.

Trees no longer leaf out

unfurling emeralds.

Stunted growth.

Bare branches.

Dying from

 the top down.

  Leaves withered 

from drought,

damp gray days,

curled brown edges

barely flutter – 

fall to ground.

 Predators thrive.

Am I the only one

who sees, or is

this because

they are dressed like me?

Maples are moving North

I’m told.

His call came out

of the blue –

sky made of pure thought

and earth’s

crimson core.

Only a sturdy

a green mantle

separates the two.

For a moment

two dolphins rose

out of the sea

 from opposite directions

uniting as One.

Autumn gold

brought a Circle

 to Life…

 And my body

 re -membered

 what it was like

to feel familial

arms around me.

“We’re Family,” he said.

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