Dusk, storm

Unseen forces roar the trees

and bend them into music.

The moon pins silver to the sky.

Night doesn’t fall—it rises.

Hecate waits at the crossroads.

Here

you can cleanse yourself

with the wind as witness

and rest

if you need to grieve

what you are leaving.

Here

you can choose

what to lose.

Holly L. Thomas

11/20/20

Photo by Oliver Roos on Unsplash