October takes all morning to dress,
scatters color after rain and leaves
her trail of indecision in low light
upon the ground—her closet full
of fading greens catches fire. Alas,
she has nothing left to wear, but
bright embers stirred to cover her
damp, brown skin like sequins.
Mesmerized, I wait beneath hillsides
of bare Blue Oaks for the first freeze
and good rain, for the long-limbed
Sycamores to dance naked in the creek.
drycrikjournal 