CK Tower

Tonight the trees are possessed. The oaks
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, wary of sapphire kisses
offered to flesh still quivering
with the remembrances
             of December. If I trust this invocation stirring,
calling me out
into the late March dusk, tempting me to discard
my winter adornments, it may only leave me
as it has before, wrapped tighter in this blue.