Rustling Leaves and Letting Go

 

Rustling Leaves

Rustling,

like Oak leaves,

persistently clinging

to a season that has past,

thoughts blow and rattle about

in my mind.

Scratching a variety of

distracting sounds

into the bark that hides my soul,

the browning instruments of psyche

play a convincing song 

of Dukkha

that draws me in.

Ever changing their direction,

blowing this way and that way,

soothing me one moment,

annoying me the next,

they hold my attention in the crinkling folds

of their melody.

 

What thirsty, thirsty leaves

dying has made them.

Desperately they suck  the sap from

my near frozen roots

up to the surface where I,

breathless from anticipation,

wait for the snow to

lay over the broken mess

they have created,

hiding my inner death

from the world.

.

The sky is bleak and grey

in this silver November light,

the earth around me decaying openly.

There is no snow.

I long for the snow that will cover 

all this ugly dying.

 

No sooner do I pray for the

white blanket to hide under

that I feel the icy chill

as the fluid of Life once again

plummets to the darkness below.

Up and down I am pulled and drained,

I laugh and weep,

I hope and seek relief.

Yet,

numb from the late 

Autumn rain and wind

I perceive around me,

I cling, I still cling,

to these dry brittle leaves 

of my identity.

I plant down into the earth.

Steadfast I stand

against the ferocious, 

unpredictable weather 

and hold with all my might,

to this which is familiar.

But over the noise that is created,

by my resistance,

a sweet and gentle Voice, 

barely heard,

whistles through my weary branches:

"Let go!  Just Let go!

This that you hold onto means nothing."

It is only when I uncurl my mental fingers,

only when I relax the grip

I have on these lifeless leaves

will I do as Nature urges…

.

It is only when I give up  

that which is in the way,

and in silence and stillness

watch as they scatter off

in a wind-swept ballet of perfection,

will I breathe the way nature truly intends;

will I sigh and sink back into 

the steadiness of my trunk

to feel the peace of Life's

seasonal soothing mantra

filling me to the core.

Only when I stop clinging

and let go,

will I know

what it is to be alive,

and only then will I finally be

free 

of death’s rustling hold.

Dale-Lyn, July 2018 (Reworked)