Last Days

Last Days

Tis your season for withholding, Lord,
and mine for golden pallor,
I steady myself for the letting go,
and relinquish foolish valour.

Low horizon, orange moon
once full, now on the wane.
Last year’s nests cast shadows now.
They’ll not hold life again.

The wind blows hard, the sap draws down
You’ve taken summer’s sheath.
They’ll see the bony fingers soon,
and all that grew beneath.

I railed against the verdict, then.
Prognosis, promise, threat.
And prayed and played against the odds
for still more life, and yet…

’Tis your season for withholding Lord,
I’ll float to mother earth,
and sink in deep on forest floor,
sweet tryst with ancient birth.

Sharonne Price

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