Traces

One evening, much like any other striated feathers of pinks, and deepest primrose colored the clouds with facets of light, tapering inward Traces of gold between each color, as deep and clear as the sages The red sun overhead, had grown weary with seasons, and did not seem to notice that we were mother and child Whispering sounds of emerald breezes did not label me wise, nor her naive' We were two who walked equally, side by side She lifted her voice, and spoke with an eloquence I had not heard before, and it was just as the twilight calls to the stars.... so that they will know just what to do Young spruces stood bolt upright, every twig stiff with interest, and with deep respect at her every word as if they were watching transformation in tandem, an exchange so delicately detectable And in one clinging moment to the other, one of us was letting go of childhood, and one was letting go of the child Both of us looking to the sky for recognition I watched the sycamore shed, beneath its load of yellow, rust and gold Letting them quietly go, without remorse while I did the same _______________________________________