Away and Away

the world goes on spinning.  the sun, rises and sets, and the birds still sing their sunrise songs to Frith-rah, even the rivers run swift. my boys have grown heads taller than me this summer, and away,  always away. the wind on the down whispers my name, caressing me with bare fingertips like a lover. traces of myself linger here, —like rowan berry stains on  late summertime fingers— proof there was once something more here than there is now. under the weathered beech tree for just a moment— an hour or an eon, I lay myself down  and weep. -j. avellana hongo, 2020

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