the tree branch is swooning at the wind, so
we must pull our scarves softly around our scars. there’s
no time for yellow throats to be vulnerable
like summer. keep throats supple with flame-hot suppers
and red soup. swallow tears, bend
without breaking in this gust, let our minds rise again
return to neutral, disrobe from royal blue
become a democracy,
sounding the fall of all great empires. so what
if we are still a green caterpillar, butterfly-ready is as good
as trying to break free now. come on, I say to myself,
push yourself up Salisbury Crags like the old bicycle, or boulder,
don’t let go now. though fingers glow a gloveless purple,
the view is always great from the top, where
you can lift your gentle arm like a tree branch,
where you can swoon at the wind.