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
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