BB Grey–musings

Letting go wasn’t a choice, but a season—
winter, relentless in its hush.
I fell with no ground, no direction,
only the ache of motion without meaning.

The warmth fled, roots curled inward,
and endings did not ask permission.

Yet even winter must break,
ice must bow to thaw.
I did not say goodbye—
I let it turn to earth,
to feed what comes next.

bb grey

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I am in freefall—
and there is no ground,
no bottom, no sky,
only the weightless hush
of motion without direction.

The falling—
is it up or down?
Does it matter?
Still, I know—
I am falling.

My chest aches,
my stomach twists,
gravity has unraveled,
its tether snapped,
and I am untethered,
adrift, arms outstretched,
desperate to touch, to press,
to carve resistance into air.

I fall—
and then I slow.

Is the fall undone,
or have I made my home in motion,
wrapped the rush around me like a cloak
and called it comfort?

Or have I landed?

It is winter—
and I am cold.
Nothing stirs beneath the frost.
No thaw, no pulse,
only ice in my veins,
brittle with regret.

The end of flow,
the hush of all things ending.
Roots retreat,
curl into themselves,
refusing to stretch,
refusing to believe.

But I know now—
now, there is a down.
Grounded, I breathe.
Grounded, I grow.

I remember—
the sun is above,
warmth exists beyond the freeze.

So I reach,
I stretch,
I rise.

Spring ignites,
its whisper sings—
the promise, the thrill,
the unfurling of new.
Away with the old,
shed and shorn,
I drink deep of all I am told.

I fill, I straighten,
rooted, braced—
I reach for gold.
The sun, the morn,
the fire of noon.

Summer crowns me,
strong, vast,
sheltering, feeding,
sowing, reaping—
glowing.

And then—
it happens.

Leaves flush amber,
bronze, crimson,
then crisp and curl,
then separate,
then fall—

up, down, neither, both.
They drown in air,
lost, drifting,
only to land,
to ground,
to crumble,
to feed.

For even the fall must serve,
must turn to earth,
must melt into the hush
where spring will find its roots again.

And summer will reign.

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***I often struggle to say goodbye to the many phases life brings. Perhaps I never truly do. Instead, I find it easier to let go through a quiet hello—to what comes next, to what remains, to what transforms. This poem is not just about farewell, but about the cycle of holding on, falling, grounding, and growing again. Because even in goodbye, there is always the whisper of a new beginning.