by P. R. Lowe, October 20, 2020

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