I can see the seasons changing
with my skin — a chameleon
of hopeful reds and oranges
set to pioneer, to chart a course
through years of fearing all
that gleams will surely be
washed away. That all we
treasure is destined for decay.
I can see the starving summer
slip away, hazy hues giving way
to a bolder sense of self.
No one else can see: their eyes
are fixed on trees. But I don’t need
a witness to this quest for something
new. The breezes crisp will carry me
through and through.
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