The slow autumn presses
at the window,
as geese give a melancholy voice
to leaving
their dark v-shape
splitting a cloudless sky

the sun spreads
a quiet space
of tangerine orange
and rosy pink
as it slips below the horizon

when darkness closes in,
stars shiver
in the distance
ghosts perhaps since
some have died

the moon’s shimmer follows
the river’s winding path
until
complacent river in lament
mingles with powerful sea

ending and beginning
combined in poignant
harmony

Mom, I have something to say, you see,
I’m not the pretty little girl,
That you want me to be.
I do not wish to be considered female,
It just isn’t me,
All the dresses, skirts,
Or all of this femininity.

I wish to be male,
If you’d please just accept,
That your “daughter” has never been “female” at heart,
So please show respect.

She and her pronouns just aren’t me,
But instead, I will go by him and he.

Being called male is what I dream,
And going by Ryan, if you please.

I still love you and that will never change,
But I just thought I should tell you this,
Just a slight rearrange,
In who you knew as Raylyn,
The name that I will no longer accept.

My poem is now coming to a close,
And I’m hoping that one day you’ll truly accept,
Me for me, no matter what clothes.


Thank you, mom.