I billow down the footpath,
skirr straight toward bright sun
and surprise a tree half-dressed
as she slips from white blossoms
into green leaves like a woman
trading her wedding clothes
for a house coat. She seems
dismayed
to be caught aging,
like myself when I find
my dark hair sprouting insurgent
silver behind my back, or when I half-
glimpse my face in self-reflection
melting away at the edges. The very nerve
of Death—
steering me by rudder slowly,
carefully down the road
when all I want is a brisk spring wind
to prick tears to life and fill my sails—
to let me tack where I will,
when I will,
streaming on and on
and on down the trail
toward sunrise.
This piece was published in 2024 as part of the Holiday Lit Blitz by the Mormon Lit Lab. Sign up for our newsletter for future updates.
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