TRANSITIONS

By Mary Everitt

seasons don’t change all at once
but you can feel the start of them.
the distinct shift in the air.
the leaves against your window dappled with color
vibrant, painted
others spotted so slightly they look diseased.
we obsess over the romance of autumn –
it is ever so
ambient, cozy.

but do we speak of the beauty of decay?
that last leaf 
clinging, quivering
on the tallest branch where the wind is strongest
its edges curled
its color rusty like a forgotten truck with sunken wheels.
it’s easy to distinguish up there
against this crisp October sky.
at some unknown moment, it will drop
floating, soundless
to get tangled in the bushes below
or merge with the rest of its former companions
brown, undistinguishable
mulching the earth for frosts to come.

my guess is tomorrow
that branch will be bare,
a finger reaching up into the clouds beckoning rain.
that leaf was the first of many signs
that what absorbs light and nourishes life
may change, must change
to continue the cycle
to let the roots go deep
to weather the snow and the sleet
with the promise of spring’s new life.
dogwood blossoms that crown the clouds in perfume
and shade the growing grasses of spring.
for now. little leaf, that fluttered
high, free
i see you. 
thank you. 
goodnight.


Mary Everitt writes from the intersections of what she feels, believes, and sees. She writes about beauty and brokenness, the insides and the outsides of the spaces she exists in. Find her on Instagram or on her website.

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