The trees are skeletal now,
bare arms raised like questions
no one dares to answer.
The sky bruises early,
a deep indigo sorrow
pressed against the bones of the day.
It is the season after the fire,
when all that once burned bright
has folded in on itself,
ash in the corners,
memory on the wind.
Nothing dies loudly here.
It just fades.
Slips between the cracks
in conversation,
leaves without slamming the door.
Even the birds have gone quiet,
as if they, too, are grieving.
This is when the world
feels thinned out,
stretched between what was
and what may never be again.
You find yourself
lighting candles for reasons
you can’t quite name.
Standing still
a little longer
in the doorway,
holding on to the ghost
of a voice
you used to answer without thinking.
The earth prepares its rest
without ceremony.
No grand exit.
Just a slow unraveling
colors drained from the hillsides,
the scent of something final
in the soil.
And death walks here
without fear.
Without flourish.
Just a presence,
soft soled,
collecting the names
we’ve whispered into pillows
and carved into silence.
But even now,
there is a kind of grace.
A beauty in the letting go.
In the way the light lingers
just a moment longer
before disappearing.
Because not all losses are cruel.
Some are kind enough
to give us time.
To sit with the leaving.
To wrap ourselves in old jumpers,
And drink hot tea,
With the ache of remembering.
This is the season
that teaches you
how to hold hands
with absence.
How to love
what you can’t keep.
And now,
as I finish this
my hands slowing,
my breath like fog
against the page
I, too, begin to slip
between the lines.
Not in fear.
But in stillness.
In peace.
Leave the candle burning.
I’ll follow the light.