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Sun floats over horizon, balloon-fixed
against the wind liberating leaves
tall trees stand nude, flush of red
scattered over shyly twisting roots.

I know the feeling, the heated blush
exposure is a forest during Fall
and I am bare against the seasons;
I can resist change without success,

dig in but even the soil grows cold
and no matter how I hide myself
turning time does find me out.
Change is the process of being

stripped of certainty and grace
refashioned by external hands
Goddess or Science or Stars
--aren't they all the same?

All weathering you bits at a time
wearing you to a nub, near nothing
and wrapping you in birth fluid
you circling the womb drain,

gush out, begin anew.

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