For so long I watched the fields behind my blue house, snow-covered or mudluscious, in full bloom or fall fallow, my orientation shifting with the turn of each season.Some nights you and I would go outside together after the girls were finally asleep, to drink the darkness.
By day I would seek out abandoned buildings, their own fields left to become wild again, searching out my own wildness and wondering what would quench my thirst, feed my bottomless hunger for something other I could not name but that grew inside me like goldenrod.
Now that I have completed the harvest of these last fallen fruits, all that remains of those questing days is compost, enough to turn for the cold months that lie ahead when I will lie alone in bed remembering this long journey.
No longer seeking, plucking the thick air for a song only I could seem to hear, I sit instead, satiated, digesting, watching the fields, admiring their self-sufficiency, how what grows simply knows when to reach sunward and when to embrace the dormancy new growth demands.
And finally I have found a stillpoint, a perch, this nest where my children can spread their wings and all I have to do is stay, be available, wait for them to come seeking me when they need a reminder that they too will fall and grow and ebb and flow with time.
Finally I see that these fields were never mind to tend. I release my hold on them, along with the ache of letting them go, and smile through tears, mist rising from the surface of my body, a hint of peace after the first hard frost of the season.