Musical Selection: The Isley Brothers|Here We Go Again

Bugs, blooms, and birds are wild
with life, each pressing through their
own way of being.
I am gifted by the heavens to
open my eyes, spread out
my arms, and let the rain wash
over me.
Chirping pummels through my
windows, louder than I can
tolerate, but the harmony
is mesmerizing.
I won’t complain.
The dog and I walk around
our neighborhood at a fast
pace, picking up speed as
the wind howls on a subtle
spring day.
The sun plays hide-and-seek
with the clouds and every other
day is a race to beat the
grip of Winter while waiting
on the cusp of Summer.
“I have no fight left in me”
is what I tell a friend who
asks how I’m dealing
with death.
Death of a season
Death of a job
Death of a hobby
Death of family
Death of a friend . . .
“I have no fight left in me.”
And it’s part true and
part lie but she doesn’t
ask a follow-up question
and for this, I am grateful.
I spend most of my
vacation time away at my
best friend’s house lulled
by nature in her
plant therapy room,
losing who I was —
finding who I should be.
I am changing with the
season and with every breath
I’m given, I look forward
to shedding this skin.
I want to see the person
under it.
I’ve been waiting to
meet her.
Originally published in Where Wild Things Grow via Medium as a response to the May the Seasons Change prompt.
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