The ash at my front
window will turn
when ready,
notwithstanding the
neighbor’s tree, whose
agenda is more rash. She
sheds her clothes at
any hint of a brash wind.
Others on the block have
been nude for a week.
They are younger, wild.
My dear is full blush, and
burning bush, scarlet
scarfed and broad-hipped.
She won’t drop until a dark
night when you can’t watch
her let go.
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