Abscission, the Unsolicited Host

Gripping the petals tightly — I tremble at the unknown.

Still, dry petals slip away — it’s inevitable.

It’s time, yes.

But ready needs to pause.

I refuse to prepare.

I don’t want a plan.

Comfort makes the sun feel warmer

and safety lingers right behind it.

I can make a real nice potpourri bowl.

For new to bloom,

the old must fall away,

release:

To be carried by the wind.

To tumble in territories that know nothing of those petals’ growth or journey.

I’ve always hated the “old must fall away” part.

Why can’t I hold new in one hand,

old in the other, and future in my shirt pocket?

Gosh.