Being Left

 

Image courtesy of elms

Shadows grew long across the drive, another sun setting on the gravel, the grass - highlighting the Everests of ants, the sequoias of earthworms, the deserts of crickets. 

I stared at the elms, bare armed and anorexic, aching for what was left of the blue sky. Maybe I ached having watched the car pull away, being left alone, again, to take in all this space.

Sure, the grass portends spring; fuzzy tree limbs, the adolescence of the year - but now my heart felt the bitter cold of winter - its barrenness as well.

Will spring arrive in closed chambers coursing with grief? Will the scent of apple blossoms reach down into the earth and breathe its sweetness? 

In this moment, I do not know.

- Writer's Workshop, March 2024