by December 12, 2022 1 comment

Closeted on a hill near the pond,
you stand in a uniform line with
relatives, extending your breezy arms to
pull on my scent while I shade.

I lay beneath you,
peering up at bare strips previously
made under a rutting moon.

You woo me with your glamorous
garment changes.
You have a pullover me.

Under autumn skies your getup,
magically costumed in morphing silk until
you are not wearing a stitch,
varied decay of threads around you,
dyes wearing thin.

I stomp on them to reach your body,
clinging as the larvae and lichen do.
It looks strange to passersby.
I don’t care.

I bid farewell, for soon,
a thick white blanket will swaddle you,
your perches an icy array.
When this happens, I cannot stay.
By design, I am limited.

editors note:

Riddle me, love or tree. – mh clay

Comments 1

  1. ruthdeming@comcast.net'

Leave a Reply