may, august, november, may

though the air is chilly
and the wind is picking up,
as it blows, I hold on.

I am rustled and tossed,
beaten.
and still I hold on for my life;
for fear of blowing
away.

this was once so comforting.
my place of belonging,
of safety, growth.
but now
the hours of light are fewer
and the blowing
tears me.

it is here.
the coldness.

but, I will clothe myself in warmth.

I will be golden.
I will be rich and deep.
I will choose red and orange.
I will set the limbs
on fire.
I will ride the wind.
it rips my younger dreams
but I will use it.
I will fly.

I will gather up all that is in me,
and I will let go.
I will use every last strength,
every resolve.
I will let go.

the release.

and I soar
scattering my gold.
my brilliant fire
scorching the sky.
I am free.

and though I fall down for some dying,
I am driven by that moment
whey I fly.

and yet
I am the tree.
now laid bare and naked.
by the release
exposed
hybernating.

and then comes the spring.