You smell like the forest floor after days of rain
Touch of cold in the air
Not a fir forest that holds tight to her needles
But the wisdom of the deciduous that knows to let go
Gives in to the gravity of the season
Trees that put all of their grief
Into the tips of their beings,
With the fading light of fall
And let go
Wisdom to shed
To give things up
Leaves, piles of loss and things better not clung to,
Bleeding rich and pungent
ochre red black brown tears
Into soil
Stew of puer
Places where memory gathers, rests and transforms.
