Round II
The oberlin leaves were profound this fall. They turned red and glossy like organs in October; I came back and they had blown away, leaving the tree bones looking old and naked. Everywhere I walk, I sift through the dry and withered versions of those colors, dusty browns beneath my Uggs. I sought out change; winter, so symbolic of death, may be just the season I need. A time to put things to rest. A chance to lay still and listen to that tiny, neglected voice inside me that says, This is good. I feel the season coming, I feel recovery. Time has afforded me some perspective; old love fades. My hurt is growing out with each inch of my hair.