What I Leave Behind
by Debi Swim
Maybe it was the mist rolling
low over the fresh mown field
obscuring fine details of day,
pressing a cool hand against the
brow of an Indian summer.
Or maybe it was just the faded
colors and imminent coming of
winter that awakened the sadness.
And yet, not really sadness, I think,
but a kind of surrender, a concession,
to the pattern of life, beginnings and endings.
The seasons come and go, come and go,
each with a story to tell, a work to do.
And the earth remains, though I will not.
Maybe this is my abiding work, to tell my story
in prose and poem and memory.
Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 210.
Debi Swim writes primarily to prompts. She is a wife, mother, grandmother and happy WV poet.