How many changes must I undergo?
From a child to a woman?
From a woman into dust?
Live in one state and then another?
Quit a job, sell a car, give away clothes:
transform, transfigure, transmute.

Swap it out, bring it in, dig it up, bury it.
Say goodbye, run away, be discovered, show my face.
Go unconscious, wake in darkness.
All the while saying, “Me, me, me.”

Insects buzz, mourning doves coo,
squirrels scold, wild turkeys warble.
The sun warms my face, clouds drift in silence.
Demands, memories, boundless desires
fall like leaves from trees and
crumble, like I will, into rich earth.

Susan Marie Powers

Photo: Jakob Owens on Unsplash

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