The Baring Season
A velvet evening lays itself down -
its sky holding a brown and grey canopy
in silhouette; its breath brushing
napes and limbs in a naked dance
for November’s pleasure.
Sparrows and crows yearn for
another hour, but the distancing sun
cannot resist melting into a bare horizon
warming, if only for an instant, the idea
of change
for the conscious crone who
begins to understand that withered
is not ugly and that the safest places
are both concealed by and lie just beyond
the most exquisite risks -
like disrobing in the cold and letting
night drape itself around a waning
frame revealing lesions, bags and
wrinkled faith to its accepting breezes;
like pressing into the season in full
embrace knowing it will soon be time
to choose again.
© 2009
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