"...not a single answer had been found..."
Rising full with chantings,
rustling with cobalt mantras I cannot
unravel, having been
born of things other than fierce
and fragile breaths,
this warm spell rising
incites my own unsettled prayers
invoked to blackened skies. One bleached luminary
against the framework of night.
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.