Lament

by Bethany Colas

LAMENT

The autumn after

my daughter turned five,

and the pace of her

becoming took my breath

away, I climbed the hill

behind our house

every night to find

the half-hidden path that leads

to the woods where a gathering

of trees grow so close

their limbs intertwine. The air

there is thick with the ache

of too little faith and not

enough grace. I sway

like a hollow bowl

of hammered bronze hung

from the thurifer’s hand,

lungs full of the burning

prayers of saints. The sweet

scent of decay rises

and hushes the place

where crippled things come

to rest—fallen seeds,

the rotting flesh of trees.

A dying leaf, once bright,

gives itself up, a consecrated

element consumed by the

earth, coaxing seeds to

crack themselves open and

reach for the light. When I cry,

I’m surprised

the trees do not bend

to catch my tears,

like my mother would,

hand pressed against

my cheek, gathering

my grief. Their comfort

is a different kind—a

rustle in the breeze, silent

silhouettes, and august leaves

whose palm-like petioles

collect, instead, drops

of water from the air,

their radiating leaflets,

like fingertips, sprinkling

my brow. I wish that I could

do what all trees do—follow

the turning of the earth,

the shifting of the sun,

to yield whatever is

required for the season

they are in. I’ve heard

that even they

feel pain, the strain

of age and death,

their groaning

in the wind a song

of longing for the day

when they will flourish

without end.

BETHANY COLAS

Bethany Colas is a poet, military spouse, and mother of three who currently resides in the suburbs of Connecticut. When Bethany's not writing poems in the margins of her days, she can be found reading mystery novels from the Golden Age era and drinking tea. Her poems have been published in Ekstasis Magazine, The Rabbit Room Poetry Substack, and Calla Press. She also belongs to the fellowship of writers at Cultivating Oaks Press.