Rooted

when autumn arrives

and leaves begin 

to fall i 

remember that i 

am the tree

not the golden 

leaf spinning gloriously 

to the ground

The dance

There is no hard line 

between sunset and night, 

the oranges and pinks 

give way to the inky 

blues and purples 

in a dance, a caress,

they embrace each other always

but we cannot 

see it from where we’re standing 

cannot see that 

we’re the ones spinning ever 

away and toward 

the light, that we are 

the dancer

dizzy with power and regret 

—

Poetry prompt: Transitions