Skeletons: The Fall of Summer

Summer falls into random patches of green outstretched before me. The meandering of September begs me to follow and sing with it. I have a strong urge to do so, yet I am halted by the heavy hand of reluctance. Where will it lead?


First, I sink my bare feet into the middle of the deepest green – soft, thick, feathery leaves of Yarrow. I sit down and run my fingers through them, recalling when it was hot, when sweat trickled down my spine and when the temperate wind caressed the damp curls pressed against my temples. I filled my basket, slowing down enough to harmonize with bees. Deliriously untamed and perfectly content; the love of my work was made visible.

Skeletons of flowers that once thrived in brilliance now rattle against each other with crooked, broken limbs, trading the magnificence of a grand centerpiece for a symbol of survival. I do not cringe. I do not hunger. I set aside grief and honor their past. I am kind in their presence, grateful for their potential to bring forth new life in the next season.

I catch sight of a few red clover blossoms, surrendering, humbled by the quietness and bowing their browning heads towards the earth. How easy it was before, when the sweetness of a tiny, light purple blossom lingered on my lips, offering a ray of light into the darkest part of myself. Like us all; flowers make entrances and they make exits. Some are more difficult to grasp than others.
Journal: Babies Breath