Seasonal

If I could dodge and burn
the electrical wires away
from a perfect structure still
holding onto life, however frail,
however bone dry these brittle
feathers are, all golden shades
of red and lime,

it would be the perfect season
of change caught in circles
understanding how you turn, how
we all turn away from certain
things eventually, and then
toward others, around again.

You would understand a feline
affinity, an elfin stature...
how less could be so much more
than one man
could ever imagine.

You could see the visual
still in my mind's eye
from this very early morning,
of soon dormant colors whose
goal is the sharpness of
chemistry, depth perception.