We, who were children, rode the great sweep
of release in October as leaves
left autumn’s trees. For once
we could be whoever we wanted, and by caprice,
whoever we pleased.
We, who were children,
tottered
in Mama's shoes,
slap-tapped
in uncles’ wingtips,
believing our disguises revealed
who we really were.
And we were not the wiser
when neighbors greeted us as strangers,
led us to parlors,
offered us treats,
and accepted us each—whether
mother,
pirate,
princess,
hobo or beast—as real.

When finally, trees
were bare in November,
and we were enveloped by elders,
we no longer pretended to be
someone else’s children.
We found peaceful resolution
in the love for who we really were.

Catherine Young's writing has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best American Essays. She worked as a national park ranger, farmer, mother, and educator. Her ecopoetry and prose are published in journals nationally and internationally and in her forthcoming collection Geosmin by Water's Edge Press. Rooted in farmlife, Catherine lives with her family in Wisconsin. Her writings and podcasts are available at: www.catherineyoungwriter.com