I sit where the grass remembers
every footstep and every season,
one shoe pressed into the afternoon,
the earth breathing beneath me.

The trees are letting go again.
Soft brown confessions drift downward,
each leaf rehearsing its last small dance.

I’m going to stare into the horizon,
wait for the sunset,
and watch and catch the falling tree leaves
when they say goodbye.

The sky will blush into amber,
like it’s embarrassed by how beautiful endings are.
And I will lift my hands—
not to stop the leaving,
but to feel it.

A leaf will land in my palm,
fragile as a whisper,
and for a second
I will be the keeper of something
that once held the sun.

Then I’ll let it go too.