by Hayley Russell
Behind the old house
stood the tree where endings went to rest,
its branches curled like open hands,
offering and releasing
in the same breath.
Each fall,
I traced the edges of every leaf,
memorizing the slow surrender,
green to gold,
gold to rust,
rust to the soft crumble
of becoming earth again.
It taught me more
than anyone ever managed
about the art of leaving:
that release
is not the enemy of love
but its final devotion.
Last year, the tree fell in a storm,
no warning, just a crack,
a letting-go too sudden
for ceremony.
But come spring,
at the lip of the stump,
a small shoot rose,
thin, trembling, reaching.
And I understood
nothing truly leaves,
it only changes its shape
and waits for you to recognize it
when you’re ready.