The wind is
rising full with chantings, rustling
with secret mantras I cannot unravel,
having
been born of things other than fierce
and fragile breaths. Yet
this warm spell rising
up my spine incites the memory of my own
unsettled prayers invoked to blackened skies...same
stage, another year.
One bleached luminary received
or stood so still against the framework of
night
I could not tell the difference.
Tonight the
trees are possessed
with their own worry, certainly the oak, creaking
his long dismay at standing naked or draped
reluctantly in the
frigid clinging fabrics of this
drawn-out season. I too, have been
clothed
in material not of my design and am tired
of wearing this
shade...nothing like August cerulean.
But I’m uncertain of this
temperate promise
of green and wary of these pleasant kisses
to
flesh still quivering with the remembrances
of December.
If I trust
this invocation stirring
expired foliage toward gutter homes calling me
out
into late March dusk, tempting me to discard
my winter
adornments, it may only leave me
as it has before, wrapped tighter in this
blue.
