On morning walks,

I am rediscovering my own rhythm.

I am silent and absorbent,

taking in dew drop and birdsong,

zinnia bloom and amber light,

distant traffic roar and leaf rustle,

spiderweb and tree shadow.

The chestnut trees are giants towering above,

rooting beneath, resisting concrete.

I stand in their sheltering embrace,

their enclave, their microcosm.

Three buckeyes lay at my feet.

I see memories of small hands foraging sidewalk and street,

filling pockets with good luck.

I roll them now in between my fingers and palms.

They feel smooth, cool, soothing.

I examine the surface of each.

The warm color, the wood-like grain, are soft on my eyes.

There are lines, none straight, only voluptuous curves.

Seasons of mothering are folded into my mind,

woven into my heart, and encoded in my cells.

The children who came through me,

they have awoken from the fantastical wilds of childhood

into a dystopian adolescence.

I think,

it is time to attend all I neglected in the name of survival.

It is time to thread truth and beauty into the new stories.