By P. R. Lowe
October’s wood is wet with leaves
and the forest floor grieves for the warm noons of June
and the fickle flies of July
There is a glint in the squirrel’s eye
bordering on a bit of madness
that he may not find a nut
and a hint of sadness as the stag disappears into rut
and I wonder if I’ll ever see him again
and a little pang in the gut
as the voice repeats itself
let go
let go
let go
and as summer retreats into
darkness to begin creating the cold and the snow
I snuggle into a different rhythm
and begin to sew a new cloak of being
of seeing and hearing.
Breaking the bonds of time and space
and stepping into a new place
releasing the cottles and shackles of what the old me was wearing