There are leftover oranges on the tree,
I couldn’t reach them and the early spring
growth buried them.
The oranges shift, the leaves crowding out the peel,
falling deeper in, each day that passes.
I want to reach in and save them. Save me.
I feel like I am in the tree, too
buried, like the oranges
under new foliage that threatens to choke me,
I feel forgotten, abandoned on the tree,
even though saying goodbye to you
quieted my life, made me whole.
Waiting to be plucked, or left alone, the oranges
shrivel and fade, because
new life is on the horizon.
And I realize this is good.
That through death, comes life;
the flowering newness.
My voice is a whisper,
My hand that had reached out for you
has shrunk in and I’ve let go, to bring in peace.
I am disappearing and I feel like
I never knew you, or that you didn’t care.
But, I know … I know that can’t be true.
We are partnering this month with the marvelous minimalists: