The Art of Letting Go

Cait Yaga
Aug 27
1 min read

silence

and then

listen

in the distance

wind rushes

devours the fields

rush turns to roar

trees groan

leaves prepare branches

It’s time, we’ve got to go

wind slices through the air

pries limbs apart

sets the leaves free

branches lunge after them

twigs scrabble helplessly

I’m not ready, can’t you stay?

but the wind is relentless

the leaves tumble

out of reach

skitter across

puddled sidewalks

the trees shiver

slow

and then

silence

Omits

I sing the obituaries I have since I was a child My father tore that spread from the newspaper Like a bite from burnt toast Disgust dripping from buttered fingers I would scoop it up like a treasure Each syllable syrup on my tongue

Hello, Mommy

I pulled my cardigan around me as I walked to the shed, the wind slamming the open door repeatedly against its frame. The sun disappeared behind heavy rain clouds, removing all warmth from the air, the cold clawing at me with skeletal fingers that sent goosebumps exploding across my skin. The shed was pitch black inside. I glanced back at the house, hoping the bath wouldn’t overflow before I returned.

The Art of Letting Go

silence and then listen in the distance wind rushes devours the fields rush turns to roar trees groan leaves prepare branches It’s time, we’ve got to go

It Ends with Hatchets (A Reflection of Dark Romance)

I don't like writing about romance. Nor do I like reading it. Kyra loved romance. All of it. Dark and grimy like charred honey. Our house was a smattering of her collections, side tables and chairs replaced with piles of characters I could never live up to. Oh, but I tried.

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