Mama, Autumn Comes

Mama,
there is no easy path
to ride into your
Indian summers.
Autumn is upon you now
but you stoutly refuse
to put on your coat
or stop swimming
in the ocean.
Storms may come,
but you insist
you can mold any wave
with your spirit
that still sees itself
riding mustangs
in the desert,
where no ocean dares
to touch.

But that won’t change
that I’m still on shore,
screaming over the waves
you carelessly kicked your way to;
screaming of dropping leaves,
graying skies,
dooming white caps.
I’m just your daughter,
so to you, it isn’t my place
to give warning.
The Indian within you
knows better.

But still,
Autumn comes.

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