Poetry | Quakies | Mary Ann Schaefer

Quakies listen
My silver skin quivers
as the lengthening nip

of night begins to sniff
and lick at my fluttering

textures.  It is time.
The summertide task of

assimilating light is
complete.  I release

my chlorophyll green
to the equinox zephyrs,

undressing my camouflage
to expose, many-sided,

the parade of my veiled
pigments:  sanguine,

carotene, marigold.
Even as I fall, freely,

in the rustle of cyclical
echoes, I am igniting

these mountains, adorning
them with the patterns

of my life.  I have
no regrets.