Elisabeth Moss
April 14, 2023

The oaks have thinned since we last spoke,

and I’m shedding the weight of you from my mind

like the willow tree goes bare in winter.

There is a lightness in living for myself,

yet I shouldered proudly that responsibility

of sharing all things with another,

of stringing together our foliage

into a patchwork of auburns and oranges

until they shivered in the cold draft and shrunk to gray.

It’s a gradual death of the willow tree, nonetheless,

and I am mourning the loss of half a life.

I am untangling the thread that fastened me to you,

yanking apart our lives in a matter of days.

Night comes quickly in a velvet blanket

and the bluebirds cease their song,

but there is joy at the end of this snow-capped road

where my dreams do not rest upon another's

and the air is sweeter in solitude.

Autumn was a sacred time now passed;

so I rest in dissonance, anticipating resolution,

awaiting winter’s new glories.

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