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Poetry

in a field with a fox

The grasses weren’t green.

They were grey in the cold, quiet 

nearest to death of winter. 

Only scattered black remnants of flowers

nodded to my upended hopes.

But the tiny crescent moon hung low 

against the palest indigo sky that day;

and I stood alone, unmoving as the fox.

Both our eyes wide, both our knees trembling. 

I suppose both our hearts 

were beating the same. 

It surprised me how long he lingered

more than how swiftly he slipped away;

he seemed to treasure the minute we spent

together—he was still, unflinching. 

Hot tears rushed to my eyes 

as soon as I knew he was gone,

and I still don’t know if they were tears of grief 

of a beauty lost to the strong hands of time,

or if they were hot tears of gratitude

for the simple graces of grey grasses,

a crescent moon,

and one minute

in a field with a fox. 

 

Dear fox, 

when you disappeared into the woods,

did your eyes well too?

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by lilyewing

Hi! I’m a Seattle-based therapist and writer. My life’s goal is to give people permission to take up space, live a little freer, and to encourage authentic, vulnerable humanity. So that’s what I write about. Authentic, real, good, bad, and messy truths from my tiny human life.


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