The Great Unraveling
The hummingbirds dine on the
Russian sage blossoms again—
morning banquet delight.
There’s a sense of something changing,
though—subtle but recognizable,
just on the other side of fruition.
Something about the stillness
this early autumn morning,
says, get ready.
Noticeably different than yesterday.
A veil of high clouds is an opaque buffer,
offering encouragement to pause.
A lone mosquito on the window
seems slow, almost disoriented.
I take this moment to pause and
orient myself—orient to the changing.
I’ve lived enough seasons to know,
nothing ever stays the same.
There’s comfort in the slow changing.
It gives a body time to adjust, gently.
It’s those abrupt, sudden changes
that disorient, confuse.
I’ll continue to let go slowly,
knowing something new is on its way.
To breathe in the changing
mountain air and
smell aspen leaves drying,
knowing they will return again.
The silver strands of hair growing
more prominent with time.
Lines around eyes say,
I’ve lived,
I’ve loved,
I’ve lost.
And I keep on living,
until the Great Unraveling—
the letting go that does not return
with the change of season.
From The Marvelous Contentment of Belonging: Poetry, Prose and Prompts for Navigating Grief by Darci Meyers**
