Harvest

I want to talk about how nothing disappears. No, not even them. No, not even you, when you’ve lost yourself. You know the feeling: something in your gut aching for something just outside yourself. And how the trees are just standing there, reaching for our sighs.

When I left the first time, farmers were harvesting their last tomatoes before first frost. I should’ve known better, but you can’t until you do. And since, there have been so many Octobers. Sometimes, the frost came early.

I let grief visit me today. Let my chest cave. Cracked. I’ve never made that noise. I’m something else now.

Summer wrung me out, but not how I’ve been before. I’m as tired as the leaves slow-motioning through the branched sky in my back yard and I just wish it looked as beautiful for us to admit it’s been a long year. Just: It’s been a long year. It’s been a long year. It’s been a long year. All of us dropping everything.