She used to love the winters,
the cold, frost-bitten nights
During which the snow fell heavily,
And stole every spot of light.
She used to take such comfort
In hot baths and a book before bed.
Now the world has turned so many times,
and with it, turned her away from things
she once knew so well.
She took each turn with acquiescence,
Though, perhaps, with a clench of her fists
She reasoned later as mere cowardice.
But now, she looks back,
After everything has let go of her,
She looks back and sees all she left,
all she let go of in the first place.
She sees that moment, the letting-go,
All translucent crystal and
color running together,
Sometimes, the images
are just sounds, smells, and pain.
Now, she wonders
How to move forward,
without being hurt by
what cannot be changed?
She lifts her palms upward,
That’s not her decision.
Not at all.