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.