The Softness of Passing Seasons

A connection to place.

A way of being,

A more determined makeup

in distillation,

of my ancient wares

in cellular scouring

the sounds of the guitar

in the cafe -

a natural way of being -

the creature in me

becoming

better smoothed and in awareness

of hunger

of spiteful ignorance

and allowing sugary energy

to bubble up from beneath -

I always knew I was a singer

in the way I move and feel,

in my tender footsteps -

but you can’t hear it

unless you let me breathe

…. and a breath is sacred

like a flower must be

allowed a lifetime of blooming

in order to describe

the field which it lies;

Then, or now, or forever discovering

Seasons have become me,

and sometimes I feel

a wilting in my forehead

in my slightly drooping eyes

and the pains in my gut

a fear of semblances

unbecoming

May reveal

my acts over a lifetime

in undeniable landmarks

as revelations forever in my skin,

a story of nature as me to all y’all.

Ageing begets all of us,

yet this moment becomes

regardless.

I hope I become

soft and mindless

to finally be able

to swaddle my flowing arms

around all of you,

to be a better version

of who I always wanted to be,

to become whole,

if only as a memory-

A small warmth

among other cold suns.